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ALTRUISM 

ITS  NATURE  AND  VARIETIES 


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ALTRUISM 

ITS  NATURE  AND  VARIETIES 

THE  ELY  LECTURES  FOR  1917-18 


BY 

GEORGE  HERBERT  PALMER 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  $ $ $ $ 1919 


D / n 
/ / / 


A 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


Published  January,  1919 


THE  ELY  FOUNDATION 


The  Elias  P.  Ely  Lectureship  was 
founded  by  Mr.  Zebulon  Stiles  Ely,  May 
8,  1865.  The  deed  of  gift  contains  the 
following  paragraphs: 

“The  undersigned  gives  the  sum  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  to  the  Union  Theological  Seminary  of  the 
City  of  New  York  to  found  a Lectureship  in  the 
same,  the  title  of  which  shall  be  the  ‘Elias  P.  Ely 
Lectures  on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity,’  on  the 
following  conditions: 

“The  course  of  lectures  given  on  this  foundation 
is  to  comprise  any  topics  that  serve  to  establish 
the  proposition  that  Christianity  is  a religion  from 
God,  or  that  it  is  the  perfect  and  final  form  of  re- 
ligion for  man.  Among  the  subjects  discussed  may 
be  the  nature  and  need  of  a revelation;  the  char- 
acter and  influence  of  Christ  and  His  apostles;  the 
authenticity  and  credibility  of  the  Scriptures,  mira- 
cles, and  prophecy;  the  diffusion  and  benefits  of 
Christianity;  the  philosophy  of  religion  in  its  rela- 
tion to  the  Christian  system.” 

Under  date  of  May  24,  1879,  Mr.  Ely 
addressed  a communication  to  the  Direc- 

' 87819 


VI 


THE  ELY  FOUNDATION 


tors  of  the  Seminary  in  which  the  con- 
ditions of  the  Lectureship  are  amplified  as 
follows: 

“The  conditions  of  the  foundation  of  the  Elias 
P.  Ely  Lectureship,  dated  May  8,  1865,  are  hereby 
modified,  so  that  the  course  of  public  lectures  there- 
in provided  for,  may  not  only  be  on  ‘The  Evidences 
of  Christianity,’  but  on  such  other  subjects  as  the 
Faculty  and  Directors,  in  concurrence  with  the 
undersigned,  while  living,  may  deem  for  the  good 
of  man.” 


PREFACE 


I here  present  the  substance  of  eight 
Ely  Lectures  delivered  in  the  spring  of 
1918  at  Union  Theological  Seminary  in 
New  York.  They  were  spoken  without 
manuscript.  In  writing  them  out  from 
the  stenographer’s  notes  I have  condensed 
them  considerably.  In  these  belligerent 
days  publishers  are  disposed  to  economize 
paper  and  print,  and  readers  to  prize  brev- 
ity in  everything  except  newspapers.  Such 
restrictions  force  on  us  loquacious  book- 
makers greater  regard  for  compactness 
and  lucidity,  and  are  thus  not  altogether 
an  injury. 

The  book  seeks  to  call  attention  to  a 
section  of  ethics  in  regard  to  which  the 
public  mind  greatly  needs  clarifying.  Al- 
truism and  egoism,  socialism  and  individual- 
ism, are  in  our  time  sentimentally  arrayed 
against  one  another  as  independent  and 
antagonistic  agencies,  each  having  its  par- 
tisans. A careful  examination  will  show, 


PREFACE 


viii 

I think,  that  the  one  has  meaning  only 
when  in  company  with  its  supposed  rival. 
I have  thought  to  make  this  clearest  by 
tracing  three  stages  through  which  the 
altruistic  impulse  passes  in  every-day  life, 
exhibiting  their  varying  degrees  of  dignity 
and  the  helpful  presence  in  all  of  them  of 
egoistic  balance.  If  through  my  notion 
of  a conjunct  self  I have  made  this  curious 
partnership  plain  I shall  count  it  no  mean 
contribution  to  our  generous,  sacrificial, 
self-assertive,  and  perplexed  time. 

George  Herbert  Palmer. 


Cambbidge,  October  21,  1918. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.  Introduction 1 

II.  Manners 13 

III.  Gifts 32 

TV.  Defects  of  Giving 56 

V.  Mutuality 75 

VI.  Love 91 

VII.  Justice 110 

VIII.  Conclusion 126 


ALTRUISM 

ITS  NATURE  AND  VARIETIES 


CHAPTER  I 
INTRODUCTION 

I have  been  moving  about  lately  through 
different  parts  of  our  country,  sitting  down 
to  dinner  in  many  homes,  and  I have 
everywhere  found  the  family  eating  bread 
made  of  Indian  meal,  rye,  barley,  or  oat- 
meal. When  I have  asked,  “Are  you  es- 
pecially fond  of  this  sort  of  food?”  I have 
pretty  generally  received  the  answer,  “Why, 
no ! We  all  like  wheat  bread  better.  But 
we  are  not  eating  it  now,  for  other  nations 
need  it.” 

That  is  altruism,  one  of  the  most  funda- 
mental, familiar,  and  mysterious  of  all  the 
virtues.  This  course  of  lectures  will  be 
devoted  to  elucidating  it.  To  a recognition 
of  it  the  Western  mind  has  risen  slowly. 
The  Greeks  attached  little  importance  to 
it;  for  though  philanthropy,  regard  for 

l 


2 


ALTRUISM 


man  as  man,  is  a Greek  word,  it  is  not  a 
Greek  idea.  Plato  does  not  include  it 
among  his  four  virtues  nor  anywhere  lay 
stress  on  its  practice.  In  Aristotle’s  Ethics , 
it  is  true,  there  are  magnificent  chapters 
on  friendship,  and  friendship  plays  a great 
part  in  the  teaching  of  the  Epicureans  and 
Stoics.  But  all  alike  speak  of  attachment 
to  another  person  chiefly  as  a means  of 
strength  for  oneself.  The  thought  of 
whole-hearted  giving  without  correspondent 
personal  gain  would  have  puzzled  a Greek. 

When  we  turn  to  the  other  branch  of 
our  civilization  and  examine  what  we  have 
derived  from  the  Hebrews,  we  find  a 
nearer  approach  to  modern  ideas.  Com- 
monly enough  the  Hebrews  speak  of  mercy 
and  grace,  and  pair  these  off  against  jus- 
tice and  truth.  Apparently  when  these 
terms  are  applied  to  God’s  dealings  with 
us,  the  second  pair  indicates  his  exact  re- 
turn for  what  we  have  done  for  him;  but 
the  first  pair  points  to  something  over  and 
above,  a surplusage  of  generosity,  lying 
outside  the  field  of  equal  pay.  God  is  con- 
ceived as  altruistic  and  we  are  summoned 
to  imitate  him  in  this.  Jesus  develops  the 
thought  to  such  a degree  that  love  be- 


INTRODUCTION 


3 


comes  the  centre  of  his  teaching.  We  are 
told  that  without  it  all  other  excellence  is 
worthless.  We  must  love  as  God  loves, 
letting  our  sun  shine  on  the  evil  and  on  the 
good.  Indeed,  we  must  love  even  our  en- 
emies. 

While  modern  nations  have  allowed  such 
precepts  to  stand  as  counsels  of  perfection 
and  have  been  ready  to  see  in  occasional 
acts  an  embodiment  of  them,  parallel  with 
them  they  have  always  recognized  a con- 
trary and  more  powerful  tendency,  namely, 
the  disposition  to  seek  one’s  own.  This 
they  have  believed  to  be  essential  for  carry- 
ing on  the  daily  affairs  of  life.  At  the 
same  time  altruistic  conduct  has  ever  been 
thought  “superior,”  “higher”;  egoistic,  as 
containing  nothing  to  call  forth  admiration. 

When  men,  however,  began  to  think 
seriously  about  ethics  it  became  impossible 
to  allow  two  such  springs  of  action  to  re- 
main in  permanent  discord.  Attempts  were 
made  to  bring  them  into  harmony  by  show- 
ing that  the  one  is  only  a disguised  form  of 
the  other.  Hobbes,  for  example  (1588- 
1679),  the  first  in  his  great  book,  Leviathan, 
to  stir  the  English  mind  to  ethical  reflec- 
tion, maintains  that  altruism  is  strictly  im- 


4 


ALTRUISM 


possible.  Each  of  us  seeks  self-preserva- 
tion and  acts  through  a passion  for  power. 
This  necessarily  brings  us  into  conflict  with 
our  neighbors  and  makes  of  society  a strife 
of  each  with  all.  Such  universal  war  is  soon 
seen  to  bring  damage  to  every  one  and 
social  compacts  arise,  compromises,  under 
which  I concede  to  others  the  right  of  act- 
ing in  certain  ways  on  condition  of  their 
allowing  my  action  in  certain  others.  While 
this  involves  large  sacrifice  of  one’s  own 
desires  for  the  sake  of  other  people,  it  is 
endured  because  it  pays,  pays  egoistically. 
We  gain  by  it  the  largest  scope  for  action 
our  crowded  world  permits.  But  there  is 
nothing  disinterested  about  it.  Genuine 
altruism  is  nowhere  operative.  A man 
cannot  escape  from  himself  and  feel  an- 
other’s pleasure  as  his  own.  As  well  might 
I profess  to  feel  your  toothache  more 
keenly  than  my  own  as  to  declare  myself 
more  interested  in  your  welfare  than  in 
that  of  myself.  Fundamentally,  each  of 
us  must  be  egoistic;  but  we  can  be  success- 
fully so  only  by  taking  others  into  the  ac- 
count. 

This  attempt  of  Hobbes  to  resolve  altru- 
ism into  a larger  form  of  egoism  naturally 


INTRODUCTION 


5 


shocked  England,  and  a century  was  spent 
by  the  English  moralists  in  trying  to  prove 
that  the  benevolent  feelings  are  equally 
original  with  the  self-seeking.  Cumber- 
land, Shaftesbury,  Hutcheson,  Butler,  ea- 
gerly demonstrated  benevolence  to  be  a 
constant  and  independent  factor  of  human 
life;  but  when  they  attempted  to  show  the 
relation  in  which  this  stands  to  its  seeming 
opposite,  they  became  vague.  Apparently 
there  are  two  rival  forces  within  us.  Now 
one  acts,  now  the  other. 

A few  of  the  attempts  that  have  been 
made  to  effect  a junction  of  the  two,  and  to 
show  how  we  cross  from  our  egoistic  to 
altruistic  desires,  deserve  notice.  Hartley 
(1705-1757)  proposed  an  ingenious  one. 
The  two  passions  become  fused  through 
association.  We  are  all  familiar  with  the 
man  who  begins  to  accumulate  money  in 
order  to  supply  his  daily  wants  and  then 
by  degrees  withdraws  his  attention  from 
those  wants  and  fixes  it  upon  money  itself. 
What  was  originally  a means  becomes  an 
end.  In  just  this  way  Hartley  thought  our 
egoistic  desires  become  transformed.  To 
reach  satisfaction  they  usually  require  as- 
sistance from  other  people.  Conscious  at 


6 


ALTRUISM 


first  of  our  dependence  on  others  for  aid, 
we  become  by  degrees  interested  in  others 
for  their  own  sake,  and  finally  seek  to  aid 
them  rather  than  have  them  aid  us.  Our 
self-regarding  powers  and  our  extra-re- 
garding powers  are  thus  by  association 
blurred  into  one.  An  important  school  of 
ethical  writers,  among  whom  the  two  Mills 
are  the  most  notable,  have  held  this  view. 

An  interesting  variation  was  adopted  by 
Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832).  It  might 
be  called  the  quantitative  view.  The  one 
thing  desired  by  us  all  is  happiness.  We 
seek  to  produce  as  much  of  it  as  possible, 
paying  little  attention  to  the  one  on  whom 
it  falls.  Of  course  our  primary  desire  looks 
toward  ourselves.  But  in  seeking  to  in- 
crease that  bulk  of  happiness  from  which 
we  draw,  egoism  largely  disappears  in  the 
search  after  the  greatest  happiness  of  the 
greatest  number.  This  formula  must  al- 
ways be  convenient  and  valuable  in  a 
democratic  state. 

One  of  the  most  curious  of  these  meth- 
ods of  extracting  altruistic  gold  from  a 
baser  metal  is  that  of  Bishop  Paley  (1743- 
1805).  According  to  him  we  have  none  of 
us  an  interest  in  our  fellows’  happiness  and 


INTRODUCTION 


7 


should  never  of  ourselves  seek  it.  But  we 
read  in  our  Bibles  the  command  to  love  our 
neighbor  and  are  told  that  we  shall  fall 
into  eternal  misery  if  we  do  not.  With 
his  customary  audacious  clearness  Paley 
states  the  matter  thus:  “The  greatest  vir- 
tue is  doing  good  to  mankind,  in  obedience 
to  the  will  of  God,  and  for  the  sake  of  ever- 
lasting happiness.”  That  is,  the  one  thing 
of  importance  is  altruistic  endeavor.  But 
this  is  so  alien  to  our  disposition  that  it 
can  be  brought  about  only  through  divine 
interposition,  making  it  a condition  of  our 
own  permanent  enjoyment. 

A subtler  doctrine,  and  one  much  closer 
to  the  facts  of  human  nature,  is  that  of 
Adam  Smith  (1723-1790).  He  has  ob- 
served how  large  a part  sympathy  plays 
in  our  ordinary  affairs.  If  I am  near  a 
person  when  he  is  moved  by  any  feeling, 
that  feeling  tends  to  jump  across  and  to 
become  mine  also.  Such  identification  of 
myself  and  him  gives  pleasure  to  us  both. 
We  all  have  experienced  how  sympathy 
heightens  enjoyment  and  diminishes  dis- 
tress. In  sympathy  two  sets  of  feelings 
become  so  nearly  identified  that  the  result 
can  be  called  neither  egoistic  nor  altruistic. 


8 


ALTRUISM 


Now  I do  not  propose  in  these  lectures 
to  combat  or  defend  any  of  these  theories. 
No  one  of  them  seems  to  me  to  be  without 
weight,  all  deserve  consideration,  and  some- 
thing like  the  operation  of  each  I trace  in 
people  around  me.  The  one  with  which  I 
am  in  largest  agreement  is  the  last,  where 
Adam  Smith  would  identify  the  two  moral 
aims.  But  all  the  theories  are  vitiated  by 
a false  start,  which  in  these  lectures  I wish 
to  avoid. 

Each  of  them  looks  upon  man  in  his 
original  estate  as  a self-centred  being,  a 
distinct  ego.  By  degrees  this  single  person 
discovers  other  persons  about  him  and 
learns  that  he  must  have  relations  with 
them.  The  relations  may  be  altruistic  or 
egoistic,  but  they  are  subsequent  and  sup- 
plemental. In  himself  he  is  separate  and 
detached.  Now,  I hold  that  this  concep- 
tion is  altogether  erroneous.  There  is  no 
such  solitary  person.  One  person  is  no 
person.  The  smallest  known  unit  of  per- 
sonality is  three,  father,  mother,  child. 
None  of  us  came  into  the  world  in  sepa- 
rateness, nor  have  separately  remained  here. 
Relations  have  encompassed  us  from  birth. 
Through  them  we  are  what  we  are,  social 


INTRODUCTION 


9 


beings,  members  of  a whole.  While  it  is 
true  that  the  ties  of  parentage  loosen  as 
the  child  matures,  these  drop  away  only 
because  others,  now  more  formative,  take 
him  in  charge.  Before  we  have  a separate 
consciousness  we  know  ourselves  as  mem- 
bers of  a family,  of  a state,  of  the  commu- 
nity of  human  kind.  We  never  stand 
alone. 

Not  that  it  is  an  error  to  say  “I.”  This, 
properly,  is  our  commonest  word  and  com- 
monest thought.  Only  with  reference  to 
it  does  anything  else  have  value.  How- 
ever interlocked  the  total  frame  of  things 
may  be,  at  certain  centres  where  relations 
converge  there  are  unique  spots  of  con- 
sciousness capable  of  estimating  reality 
and  of  sending  forth  modifying  influences. 
Such  a centre  of  consciousness,  unlike  all 
else,  we  rightly  call  a person,  a self  or  ego; 
and  because  of  its  importance  we  often  fix 
attention  on  it,  withdrawing  notice  for  the 
moment  from  the  relations  which  encom- 
pass it.  Such  an  abstraction,  if  clearly 
understood,  is  entirely  legitimate.  I shall 
frequently  make  use  of  it  under  the  title 
of  the  separate  or  abstract  self.  But  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind  that  it  is  an  ab- 


10 


ALTRUISM 


straction  and  that  the  real  person  is  what 
I shall  call  the  conjunct  or  social  self,  made 
up  of  that  centre  of  consciousness  and  the 
relations  in  which  it  stands.  While  these 
two  are  usefully  distinguishable,  they  are 
not  separable.  When  I try  to  detach  my- 
self from  my  surroundings  I know  I am 
attempting  an  impossibility.  How  much 
would  there  be  left  of  me  were  there  no  one 
but  this  central  ego,  none  with  whom  I 
might  communicate,  no  language  prepared 
for  communication  or  thought,  no  common 
affections,  interests,  or  undertakings?  Evi- 
dently we  are  from  the  start  social  beings. 
If  with  the  early  moralists  we  make  the 
opposite  assumption,  our  subsequent  inter- 
est in  our  fellow  men  will  never  quite  clear 
itself  of  artificiality  and  mistake. 

Yet  while  the  separate  self  and  the  con- 
junct self  lodge  in  the  same  being,  the  de- 
gree and  kind  of  attention  accorded  to  the 
latter  marks  the  stage  of  moral  maturity 
at  which  man  or  nation  has  arrived.  In 
certain  undeveloped  forms  of  social  life  the 
conjunctive  elements  are  but  slightly  em- 
phasized, while  the  separate  self  bulks 
large.  With  the  advance  of  morality  the 
opposite  principle  obtains.  Wider  and 


INTRODUCTION 


11 


more  subtle  relationships  are  seen  to  make 
our  lives  our  own.  Many  as  are  these 
social  varieties,  I have  thought  they  might 
advantageously  be  examined  under  three 
headings,  to  which  I give  the  rather  unin- 
telligible names  of  Manners,  Gifts,  and 
Mutuality.  While  recognizing  that  every 
phase  of  human  life  is  altruistic  in  some 
degree,  I hold  that  there  are  higher  grades 
which  give  to  the  principle  a prominence 
and  scope  which  the  lower  lack.  My  gen- 
eral subject,  then,  might  be  entitled  The 
Forms  and  Stages  of  the  Conjunct  Self. 
I begin  where  the  conjunctive  principle  ap- 
pears in  its  narrowest  range  and  advance 
into  the  broader  altruism  only  as  I am 
logically  compelled  to  do  so.  Endeavor- 
ing to  see  how  small  a section  of  human 
conduct  need  be  affected  by  altruism,  I am 
ultimately  forced  to  make  it  as  extensive  as 
life  itself. 

Maintaining,  however,  as  I do,  that  the 
two  contrasted  elements  always  are  and 
should  be  mutually  serviceable,  I natur- 
ally have  nothing  to  say  in  condemnation 
of  self-seeking.  On  the  contrary,  I hold  it 
to  be  praiseworthy.  Rightly  does  Aris- 
totle assert  that  the  good  man  is  always  a 


12 


ALTRUISM 


lover  of  himself.  But  of  which  self  is  Aris- 
totle thinking,  the  conjunct  or  the  sepa- 
rate? Much  of  the  mystery  surrounding 
the  notion  of  altruism  is  due  to  confusion 
on  this  point.  For  example,  when  a man 
is  charged  with  selfishness  it  is  usually  be- 
cause he  is  thought  to  have  obtained  some 
advantage.  But  why  should  he  not?  He 
is  blamable  only  when  he  detaches  the 
thought  of  his  own  advantage  from  ad- 
vantage to  others.  My  good  must  not  be 
had  at  another’s  expense.  When  a plate 
of  apples  is  passed  and  I pick  out  the  best 
one,  the  wrong  is  not  in  my  obtaining  a 
good  apple  but  in  my  depriving  somebody 
else  of  one.  That  is  selfishness.  Whenever 
my  gain  is  not  inconsistent  with  his  or,  as 
is  usually  the  case,  actually  contributes  to 
it,  the  larger  the  gain  made  by  me  the 
better. 


CHAPTER  II 


MANNERS 

Where,  then,  does  altruism  appear  in  its 
simplest  form  ? Whenever  one  of  us  comes 
into  the  presence  of  another  there  occurs 
a subtle  change  of  personal  attitude  to 
which  I give  the  name  of  Manners.  We  do 
not  act  or  speak  precisely  as  if  alone.  In 
all  our  bearing  there  is  a marked  adjust- 
ment of  one  personality  to  another.  I 
take  on  the  color  of  him  before  whom  I 
stand.  I feel  his  psychological  conditions 
and  square  myself  accordingly.  That  is,  I 
at  once  perceive  that  he  and  I are  not 
quite  independent.  An  acknowledgment 
of  a certain  community  between  us  must 
be  established  before  either  of  us  can  be 
at  ease.  Such  acknowledgment  may  have 
a wide  or  narrow  scope,  but  it  will  always 
imply  regard  for  another  for  his  own  sake 
and  not  merely  regard  for  my  sake. 

One  would  expect  that  the  words  which 
name  a relation  so  normal  and  dignified 
would  be  words  suggestive  of  honor. 

13 


14 


ALTRUISM 


Strangely  enough,  they  are  all  deprecia- 
tory. I have  sought  for  a word  to  describe 
the  consideration  of  man  by  man  which 
would  be  colorless,  that  neither  praised 
nor  blamed,  but  simply  fixed  attention  on 
the  fact.  No  such  word  do  I find.  A blot 
of  disparagement  is  on  them  all.  I choose 
Manners  as  on  the  whole  the  least  objec- 
tionable. 

Pass  them  briefly  in  review.  When  I 
say  a man  is  kind  in  Manners,  do  I not 
suggest  that  there  may  be  a contrast  be- 
tween his  outward  bearing  and  his  inner 
heart  ? Or  shall  we  call  the  relation  one  of 
Propriety,  as  Adam  Smith  does  in  his  mas- 
terly discussion  of  this  moral  situation? 
Propriety  always  stirs  aversion,  because  it 
implies  that  we  have  had  little  share  in 
establishing  the  standard  employed.  It 
has  been  set  up  outside  us  and  still  we  are 
subjected  to  it.  How  exasperated  a child 
is  when  told  to  behave  properly ! Why 
should  he  care  for  Propriety  ? Or  shall  we 
say  Civility?  It  is  a scrimping,  meagre 
word,  announcing  that  only  so  much  con- 
sideration is  shown  as  decency  requires. 
When  we  hear  a man  say,  “John  was  civil 
to  me,”  our  thought  continues:  “Was  that 


MANNERS 


15 


all?  Did  he  go  no  further  than  that?” 
How  would  Politeness  do  ? More  than 
Manners  it  hints  at  insincerity  and  con- 
duct that  hopes  to  gain  something  for  it- 
self. Beware  of  a polite  man.  He  is 
likely  to  use  you  for  his  own  ends.  Might 
we  then  talk  of  Good  Breeding?  When 
any  one  calls  me  well-bred  he  praises  my 
parents,  not  me.  The  excellence  on  which 
I pride  myself  has  apparently  come  from 
their  training.  What  shall  we  say  of  Cour- 
tesy? That  it  is  a term  of  dignity,  but 
suggests  stooping.  The  one  with  whom  I 
deal  is  accounted  my  inferior.  Or  Gentle- 
manliness? To  call  a young  fellow  a gen- 
tleman makes  his  heart  throb.  Yet  the 
word  does  not  escape  a certain  limitation. 
It  uses  the  standard  of  a particular  set, 
“our  crowd.”  If  my  conduct  does  not  ac- 
cord with  their  usages,  I am  not  a gentle- 
man. The  word  lacks  universality. 

By  such  questionable  terms  our  language 
names  the  beautiful  relation  I am  now  to 
set  forth.  Since  Manners  is  on  the  whole 
the  least  stained  word  among  them,  the 
one  most  nearly  neutral,  I adopt  it,  but  I 
shall  read  into  it  much  more  meaning  than 
people  generally  intend.  To  cover  its 


16 


ALTRUISM 


full  meaning  I am  obliged  to  frame  a 
statement  so  burdened  with  details  that 
it  will  hardly  be  recognized  as  anything 
commonly  called  Manners.  But  it  shall  be 
explained  clause  by  clause,  and  I ask  my 
reader  to  watch  whether  I have  introduced 
anything  into  it  which  might  be  omitted  or 
omitted  anything  which  should  have  been 
introduced.  The  definition  runs  thus:  By 
Manners  I mean  such  a voluntary  con- 
formity to  a code  of  conduct  as,  within  a 
fixed  field  of  intercourse,  insures  to  each 
person  the  least  offense  and  a due  oppor- 
tunity of  self-expression.  Four  elements 
are  here  named  as  belonging  to  Manners. 
I will  take  them  up  separately  and  in  order. 

In  the  first  place  Manners  assume  a set- 
tled code,  a social  arrangement  generally 
agreed  to.  They  are  essentially  system- 
atic, not  impulsive  and  incidental.  An  ex- 
clamation of  joy  uttered  when  I am  happy 
may  or  may  not  be  consistent  with  good 
manners.  That  depends  on  how  fully  it 
has  been  rationalized.  I am  expected  to 
act  to-day  as  I should  wish  to  act  to- 
morrow. Expression  must  keep  in  view 
the  whole  personality.  Moreover,  I must 
know  how  other  people  act  and  bring  my 


MANNERS 


17 


action  into  measurable  conformity  with 
theirs.  If  I am  frequently  doing  what  no- 
body else  does,  I am  sure  to  be  thought 
rude.  I am  expected  to  understand  what 
the  social  code  demands.  Perhaps  the 
word  “code”  is  too  formal.  It  pictures  a 
committee  drawing  up  a plan  of  behavior. 
Of  course  no  such  committee  exists.  Yet 
an  agreement  there  has  been,  a tacit  un- 
derstanding, of  how  we  are  to  behave  to 
one  another.  Any  one  ignorant  of  this  un- 
derstanding, or  neglectful  of  it,  is  reckoned 
boorish  and  unfit  for  mannerly  intercourse. 
That  usage  and  not  my  own  liking  should 
direct  my  bearing  toward  others.  To  do 
something  just  because  I like  to  shows  me 
uncivilized.  My  commonest  actions  should 
be  socialized.  They  are  expected  to  ex- 
press something  more  than  my  separate 
self,  namely,  my  conjunct  self,  showing  ac- 
cordance with  myself  at  other  times  and 
also  accordance  with  the  persons  around 
me. 

Is  it  well  or  usual  to  have  these  under- 
standings written  down?  Are  manuals  of 
manners  useful,  teaching  us  just  how  to 
behave  in  this  and  that  situation?  Such 
books  exist,  but  I believe  few  would  will- 


18 


ALTRUISM 


ingly  be  caught  reading  one.  Formal 
codes  are  not  what  we  want.  They  are 
not  fine  enough.  They  study  moral  situ- 
ations too  mechanically,  with  too  little  re- 
gard for  personality.  From  them  one 
might  pick  up  a few  useful  warnings  about 
certain  bad  habits  not  previously  noticed; 
but  a man  who  followed  such  a manual  ex- 
actly would  nowhere  be  a welcome  guest. 

Conformity  to  a standard,  however,  is 
far  from  the  whole  of  manners.  Were  it 
so,  the  place  to  find  good  manners  would 
be  the  State  Prison.  A clear  code  is  es- 
tablished there.  Each  man  is  told  pre- 
cisely what  he  is  to  do  throughout  the  en- 
tire day.  For  that  reason  we  are  hardly 
justified  in  speaking  of  convict  manners  at 
all.  A prison  permits  no  expression  of  the 
individual  life,  and  a second  condition  of 
good  manners  was  “ voluntary  conformity 
to  a social  code.”  While  every  child  should 
be  trained  to  know  how  those  who  are 
wisest  and  kindest  are  accustomed  to  meet 
the  little  circumstances  of  daily  inter- 
course, still  that  child’s  actions  are  worth- 
less if  they  do  not  bear  his  own  stamp.  Is 
not  this  what  we  mean  by  a vulgar  man? 
His  manners  are  not  an  expression  of  him- 


MANNERS 


19 


self,  but  of  somebody  else.  Other  men  have 
obliterated  him.  An  evident  copy  is  all 
that  remains.  Fine  manners  play  around 
the  correct  modes,  departing  from  them 
here  and  there  in  little  niceties.  So  far  is 
the  code  from  fettering  individuality  that  it 
becomes  the  channel  for  its  easiest  outgo. 
A graceful  gentleman  is  enviable  in  his 
freedom.  He  is  at  home  anywhere.  Every 
situation  has  been  thought  out  by  society 
beforehand.  With  its  conclusions  he  has 
been  long  acquainted  and  in  his  own  way 
swiftly  adapts  them  to  the  delicate  oc- 
casion at  hand.  There  is  no  surprise,  no 
awkwardness,  no  loss  of  dignity.  The 
separate  self  is  not  altogether  suppressed, 
but  is  present  everywhere  in  the  service  of 
the  conjunct. 

There  appears  in  the  definition,  however, 
a phrase  which  clogs  it:  “Within  a fixed 
field  of  intercourse.”  Why  is  this  neces- 
sary and  what  does  it  mean?  Manners 
need  to  be  adjusted  to  different  occasions. 
Those  that  are  suitable  to  the  shop  do  not 
fit  the  evening  party.  When  we  meet  for 
the  exchange  of  commodities  or  meet  to 
exchange  good  wishes  and  general  good 
cheer,  we  approach  one  another  from  dif- 


20 


ALTRUISM 


ferent  angles,  and  our  manners  should  re- 
flect them  appropriately.  When  again  we 
meet  for  discussion,  the  social  situation  is 
so  peculiar  that  nothing  less  than  a written 
code,  a Cushing's  Manual,  will  insure  free- 
dom for  all.  Left  to  themselves,  each 
person  would  speak  as  often  as  feeling 
prompted.  But  such  rude  manners  are  not 
allowed.  No  one  must  speak  without  ap- 
pealing to  the  chairman  and  receiving  his 
permission  by  word  or  nod.  If  a person 
opposing  me  in  debate  makes  statements 
which  strike  me  as  absurd  and  intended  to 
mislead,  I am  not  at  liberty  to  character- 
ize them  so.  Debate  could  not  proceed  on 
such  terms.  Every  one  must  be  respectful 
and  conform  to  a parliamentary  standard. 
Such  a standard  would  be  out  of  place  in 
the  home.  But  much  of  the  beauty  of 
human  intercourse  arises  from  noticing 
these  differences  in  the  field  and,  with  full 
knowledge  of  what  is  customary,  adapting 
our  manners  freshly  to  what  the  occasions 
require. 

But  readers  will  already  be  asking,  “Why 
all  this  pomp  and  circumstance  ? What 
object  can  make  us  willing  to  accept  such 
constraint  instead  of  approaching  one  an- 


MANNERS 


21 


other  as  we  happen  to  feel.”  That  object 
was  the  fourth  point  in  my  definition: 
Manners  are  accepted  “in  order  to  insure 
to  each  person  the  least  offense  and  a due 
opportunity  for  self-expression.”  Expres- 
sion is  dear  to  all.  At  least  to  me  it  is  al- 
ways a pleasure  to  give  another  a piece  of 
my  mind.  This  may  not  be  a pleasure  to 
that  other.  If,  then,  we  are  to  be  social 
beings,  there  must  be  some  security  that 
when  I am  enjoying  speech  I cause  no  dis- 
turbance to  others.  Accordingly,  the  chief 
object  of  manners  is  a negative  one,  to 
avoid  offense,  to  put  every  one  at  ease. 
Suppose  the  contrary;  suppose  A.  B.  asks 
me  to  meet  a group  of  his  friends;  suppose 
I have  a fancy  for  colored  waistcoats  and 
dress  of  fantastic  design;  suppose  me  not 
inclined  to  subordinate  my  taste  to  that  of 
others,  but  simply  to  dress  as  I please. 
Should  I not  come  as  an  intruder  and  dis- 
turber, preventing  my  fellow  guests  from 
thinking  of  anything  but  me?  I should 
not  be  invited  again  to  that  house.  To 
avoid  such  scenes  we  willingly  accept  a 
common  costume,  which  nobody  was  ever 
known  to  admire.  We  go  out  in  the  eve- 
ning garbed  in  black.  We  know  then  what 


22 


ALTRUISM 


to  expect,  securing  ourselves  against  shock 
and  curbing  the  self-asserter.  That  tur- 
bulent ego  is  the  chief  obstacle  to  society. 
Better  give  up  much  that  is  of  value  if  we 
can  thus  be  brought  to  conduct  which 
shows  consideration  for  all  around. 

The  other  part  of  the  aim  of  manners, 
self-expression,  is  subordinate  though  de- 
sirable. Living  alone,  we  are  small;  in 
contact  with  our  fellow  men,  we  enlarge 
ourselves.  Trouble  is  worth  taking  for 
such  a purpose.  But  there  are  dangers. 
Society  is  possible  only  where  mutual  con- 
sideration is  shown.  To  be  a social  per- 
son one  must  be  altruistically  minded,  con- 
tinually studying  another’s  comfort.  I am 
talking  with  two  or  three  old  friends  about 
some  experiences  of  our  youth,  when  John 
Smith  joins  us.  We  go  on  talking,  and 
soon  all  the  company  except  John  Smith 
bursts  into  laughter.  He  naturally  feels 
shut  out  and  we  perceive  that  we  have  been 
rude.  Manners  are  devised  to  stop  such 
painful  feelings.  We  leave  outside  social 
walls  whatever  cannot  be  shared  by  all 
alike. 

I have  been  expounding  here  something 
so  familiar  that  it  is  seldom  mentioned  or 


MANNERS 


23 


even  thought  of,  but  is  usually  taken  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Yet  surely  it  is  im- 
portant to  perceive  how  wide  is  the  extent 
of  altruism.  It  is  nothing  occasional,  call- 
ing for  exceptional  heroism.  It  is  common- 
place, spread  all  around  us,  attending  the 
most  elementary  processes  of  existence. 
We  never  approach  one  another  as  sepa- 
rate beings,  but  are  called  on  wherever  we 
meet  to  put  each  other  at  ease,  whatever 
may  be  the  cost  to  ourselves.  Well  does 
Bentham  write:  “Good  breeding  is  that 
deportment  on  occasions  of  inferior,  and, 
when  separately  taken,  of  trivial  impor- 
tance by  which  those  acts  are  abstained 
from  which  give  annoyance  to  others.  It 
is  to  this  negative  or  abstinential  branch 
of  benevolence  that  most  of  the  laws  of 
good  breeding  are  to  be  referred.”  Christ 
in  offering  the  Golden  Rule  seems  not  to 
be  urging  unusual  conduct,  but  rather  to 
suggest  that  we  carry  out  consistently  and 
as  a plan  of  life  a principle  inwrought  into 
the  very  structure  of  our  being.  We  are 
made  conjunctive.  Any  attempt  to  ex- 
hibit the  varieties  of  altruism  must  take 
this  beautiful  fact  as  its  starting-point. 

No  one  has  set  forth  more  clearly  the 


24 


ALTRUISM 


scope  and  delicacy  of  manners  than  Adam 
Smith  in  those  chapters  of  his  Moral  Senti- 
ments which  treat  of  Propriety.  He  asks 
what  feelings  may  properly  be  expressed  in 
company  and  what  others,  equally  natural, 
the  well-mannered  man  suppresses.  The 
general  principle  is  that  those  which  have 
their  root  in  specific  circumstances  of  the 
individual,  as,  for  example,  the  physical 
experiences,  should  be  kept  in  the  back- 
ground. A gentleman  does  not  talk  of  his 
toothache  or  recent  cold,  nor  does  he  show 
his  strong  appetite  at  table.  While  recog- 
nizing that  all  may  properly  be  interested 
in  his  intended  marriage,  he  dwells  on  the 
intensity  of  his  affection  only  to  the  lady 
herself.  These  are  matters  relating  to  the 
separate  self,  while  manners  give  expres- 
sion only  to  what  all  can  share.  Our  ar- 
dent personal  passions,  even  when  entirely 
justified,  often  need  to  be  flattened  down 
before  they  can  be  fit  to  express.  Mani- 
festations of  the  social  passions,  kindness 
and  pity,  are  seldom  improper.  These 
give  a double  opportunity  for  sympathy. 
We  share  the  feelings  both  of  the  sufferer 
and  the  humane  speaker.  But  the  emo- 
tions that  terminate  in  ourselves,  like  joy 


MANNERS 


25 


and  grief,  require  care.  On  the  whole, 
Smith  thinks  we  may  count  on  sympathy 
with  our  small  joys  and  large  griefs.  Hap- 
piness is  something  delightful  to  share,  at 
least  until  it  becomes  so  great  as  to  awaken 
envy.  And  though  it  is  disagreeable  to 
hear  of  petty  annoyances,  which  a gentle- 
man passes  lightly  by,  serious  misfortune 
is  so  much  a part  of  the  common  lot  that 
all  will  sympathize  in  hearing  of  it  and  be 
pleased  that  they  have  in  this  instance 
escaped.  The  death  of  a relative  may  not 
improperly  put  its  mark  on  our  very 
clothing,  but  it  is  indecent  to  speak  of  our 
vexations  from  servants  and  children. 

Here,  then,  we  see  human  society  repos- 
ing on  a widely  distributed  and  systema- 
tized altruism.  Mutual  consideration  is 
here  the  rule.  The  apostle  states  it  ad- 
mirably: “Look  not  every  man  on  his  own 
things,  but  every  man  also  on  the  things  of 
others.”  The  separate  self  is  allowed  no 
place;  the  conjunct  self  is  the  only  person 
recognized.  Surely,  any  one  who  under- 
takes to  examine  the  varieties  of  altruism 
must  begin  with  these  beautiful  and  little- 
noticed  moralities. 

Begin,  but  not  end  here.  For  while  I 


26 


ALTRUISM 


believe  all  that  has  thus  far  been  said  is 
true,  I see  so  much  else  to  be  true  that  I 
devote  a section  of  this  chapter  to  a criti- 
cism of  manners.  Wherein  do  manners 
fail  to  embody  altruism  completely?  In 
three  respects:  they  are  trivial,  self-protec- 
tive,  and  enfeebling.  The  study  of  these 
deficiencies  will  show  us  the  way  to  altru- 
ism of  a higher  kind. 

The  triviality  of  manners  requires  no 
long  demonstration.  All  must  have  felt  it 
and,  probably  enough,  have  been  surprised 
at  my  counting  such  matters  deserving  of 
a place  in  a serious  ethical  discussion.  It 
is  as  if  I had  devoted  a section  to  brushing 
the  hair.  Many  things  more  or  less  con- 
nected with  the  comfort  of  daily  life  we 
do  not  talk  or  think  much  about,  and  such 
are  manners — never  good  until  they  become 
instinctive.  They  express  merely  our  super- 
ficial relations  with  our  fellows,  our  out- 
ward behavior,  our  acts  and  not  our  mo- 
tives. The  man  of  considerate  manners 
may  be  inwardly  considerate,  too;  but  he 
may  be  the  very  reverse  and  have  shaped 
his  conduct  with  a view  to  social  success. 
Indeed,  it  may  truly  be  said  that  manners 
become  more  prominent  as  the  occasions 


MANNERS 


27 


of  human  intercourse  diminish  in  impor- 
tance. Organized  “society,”  in  which  man- 
ners flourish,  is  treated  as  of  little  con- 
sequence by  the  sober  body  of  the  com- 
munity. This,  then,  is  the  first  defect  of 
manners  when  regarded  as  an  embodiment 
of  altruism:  they  are  of  limited  range  and 
do  not  necessarily  involve  the  whole  man. 

But  they  are  open  to  a graver  objec- 
tion. They  are  fundamentally  self-protec- 
tive. If  my  first  account  of  them  were  the 
whole  truth,  society  people  would  be  the 
least  selfish  of  mankind.  That  is  not  their 
reputation,  for  manners  are,  after  all, 
grounded  in  distrust  of  our  fellow  man.  I 
said  that  the  chief  aim  of  manners  was  to 
avoid  offense;  that  is,  we  anticipate  being 
offended  when  we  meet,  and  take  precau- 
tions against  it.  The  need  of  such  pre- 
cautions against  the  turbulent  ego  I have 
shown  already.  Until  I can  be  sure  that 
people  will  not  shock  me  by  tasteless  attire 
and  heavy  talk,  that  they  will  not  unload 
on  me  what  concerns  only  themselves,  that 
they  will  not  be  tedious,  didactic,  or  in- 
trusive, in  short,  that  they  will  be  trained 
to  play  the  social  game  for  general  enjoy- 
ment rather  than  individual  gain,  I shall 


ALTRUISM 


keep  away  from  company.  Manners  ex- 
press these  doubts.  They  preserve  an  in- 
terval between  me  and  those  who  might 
press  too  near.  Emerson  says  of  them  that 
they  are  a contrivance  of  the  wise  for  keep- 
ing fools  at  a distance.  No  doubt  they 
may  also  express  affection  and  pleasure  in 
humankind.  I only  assert  that  this  is  not 
necessarily  their  meaning.  They  may  be 
mere  social  safeguards,  restraints  to  which 
each  of  us  submits  in  Hobbistic  fashion  in 
order  to  protect  ourselves. 

But  there  is  one  further  point  in  our  dis- 
paragement of  manners.  He  who  accepts 
the  code,  indorses,  and  practises  it,  finds 
himself  in  the  long  run  enfeebled.  Accord- 
ingly, a healthy  nature  is  always  a little 
restive  under  manners.  The  child  rebels 
against  being  taught  how  to  behave.  He 
wants  to  behave  as  nature  prompts.  When 
full  of  glee  he  would  laugh  aloud,  but  is 
told  that  loud  laughter  in  company  is  not 
proper.  Is  there  not  danger  that  the  con- 
tinual check  which  manners  put  on  exu- 
berant nature  may,  in  the  process  of  rub- 
bing off  social  excrescences,  rub  off  much 
of  nature  too?  How  large  will  be  the  “due 
opportunity  for  self-expression”  in  a soci- 


MANNERS 


29 


ety  whose  prime  aim  is  “the  avoidance  of 
offense”?  It  must  be  remembered  that 
checking  expression  checks  thought.  We 
do  not  develop  strong  interests  when  mov- 
ing among  those  who  stare  if  we  mention 
them.  In  company,  people  may  grow 
quick,  clever,  neat  in  repartee,  compliment, 
and  paradox,  but  they  do  not  become  re- 
flective, solid  in  judgment,  distinctive  in 
individual  taste.  Such  things  come  more 
readily  in  isolation.  It  is  wise  advice 
George  Herbert  gives: 

“ By  all  means  use  sometimes  to  be  alone. 

Salute  thyself.  See  what  thy  soul  doth  wear. 

Dare  to  look  in  thy  chest,  for  ’tis  thine  own. 

And  tumble  up  and  down  what  thou  find’st  there. 
Who  cannot  rest  till  he  good  fellows  find 
He  shuts  up  house,  turns  out  of  doors  his  mind.” 

The  fact  is  that  in  bidding  us  all  the 
time  to  be  regardful  of  others,  manners 
make  too  sharp  a division  between  the  con- 
junct and  the  separate  self;  and  it  is  dis- 
astrous to  each  to  be  set  up  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  other.  In  detachment  the  conjunct 
self  grows  empty,  the  separate  self  surly 
and  brutish.  They  belong  together.  When 
either  has  been  unduly  emphasized,  it  is 


30 


ALTRUISM 


wholesome  to  give  the  other  a chance. 
Society,  the  special  field  for  the  cultivation 
of  manners,  would  soon  be  sterile  soil  were 
it  not  abandoned  during  lenten  intervals 
and  summers  in  the  country.  After  meet- 
ing a multitude  of  people  and  being  obliged 
to  adjust  ourselves  to  only  such  matters 
as  all  can  understand,  what  a relief  it  is  to 
be  in  the  open  fields,  social  conventions 
dropped,  responsibilities  forgotten,  and  no 
regard  for  others  marking  our  words,  acts, 
or  dress ! 

And  now  we  see  why  all  the  words  which 
name  the  ingenious  system  of  man’s  best 
approach  to  man  contain  a tinge  of  evil. 
Every  one  is  a disparaging  term,  though 
meant  for  praise.  Politeness,  courtesy, 
good  breeding,  propriety,  decency,  civility 
— manners  is  the  best  of  the  long  list,  for 
it  states  with  less  of  praise  or  blame  the 
mutual  consideration  expected  whenever 
person  meets  person.  But  it  is  not  alto- 
gether clean.  It  lingers  on  the  outside  and 
so  suggests  triviality,  suspicion  of  our 
neighbor,  and  the  enfeebling  of  originality. 
That  these  baser  qualities  are  not  inherent 
in  manners  is  true  enough.  A well-man- 
nered man  may  have  a friendly  soul.  But 


MANNERS 


31 


he  may  have  one  of  an  opposite  sort.  Man- 
ners, therefore,  though  altruistic  in  form, 
are  not  necessarily  altruistic  in  matter. 
They  can,  accordingly,  be  regarded  as  only 
the  beginning  of  our  inquiry.  No  human 
society,  it  is  now  evident,  can  be  formed 
without  recognizing  the  altruistic  principle; 
but  in  manners  that  principle  may  be  em- 
ployed as  naturally  for  an  egoistic  as  for 
an  altruistic  purpose.  What  we  are  in 
search  of  is  a situation  in  which  a man  sin- 
cerely prefers  another’s  good  to  his  own. 


CHAPTER  III 
GIFTS 

Such  a higher  stage  of  altruism  is  that 
which  I have  called  Gifts.  When  we  give, 
we  set  ourselves  in  a low  place  and  some 
one  else  in  a high,  so  intentionally  putting 
altruism  into  the  matter  of  our  action  and 
not  merely  into  its  form.  A definition  of 
giving  would  therefore  run  as  follows:  the 
diminution  by  ourselves  of  some  of  our 
possessions,  pleasures,  or  opportunities  for 
growth,  so  that  another  person  may  pos- 
sess more. 

Every  gift,  to  be  a real  gift,  must  cost 
the  giver  something.  When  I have  just 
received  an  unexpectedly  large  payment 
and  am  feeling  particularly  well  off,  I 
might  easily  take  pleasure  in  handing  a 
half-dollar  to  a beggar.  But  that  is  an 
amusement,  not  a gift.  I have  experienced 
no  loss.  For  both  money  and  beggar  I 
cared  little,  but  the  momentary  sense  of 
munificence  was  agreeable.  The  act  was 
one  of  pride  rather  than  generosity.  On 

S2 


GIFTS 


33 


the  other  hand,  I give  a friend  a book  I 
love,  one  that  has  deeply  influenced  my 
life  and  I hope  may  influence  his.  He  has 
no  means  of  obtaining  a copy  elsewhere. 
I shall  miss  it,  no  doubt.  But  remember- 
ing how  long  I have  had  it,  and  he  not  at 
all,  I resolve  to  impoverish  myself  for  his 
enrichment.  The  moment  I hand  it  to 
him  he  becomes  the  rich  man  and  I the 
poor.  All  ownership  on  my  part  ceases. 
I have  cut  myself  off  from  something  valu- 
able in  order  to  bring  about  a certain 
superiority  in  him.  That  is  the  essence  of 
a gift.  To  make  my  friend  large  I make 
myself  small. 

It  may  be  said,  however,  that  such 
damage  to  the  giver  is  unnecessary.  Com- 
pleter giving  would  be  that  where  the  re- 
ceiver makes  up  to  me  my  loss.  But 
would  not  my  act  under  such  conditions 
cease  to  be  a gift?  It  would  become  an 
exchange,  a trade,  a bargain.  Whether  a 
wise  trade  or  a foolish,  there  was  calculation 
directed  to  keeping  me  as  well  off  at  the 
close  of  the  transaction  as  at  the  beginning. 
On  that  account  no  one  will  call  it  a gift. 
Or  if,  again,  I expect  positively  to  profit  by 
what  I offered  my  friend,  finding  my  book- 


34 


ALTRUISM 


shelves  crowded  and  resolved  to  lead  a 
simpler  life,  my  act  once  more  will  lack 
the  quality  of  a gift.  Wisely  I rid  myself 
of  some  superfluous  possessions,  but  I did 
so  quite  as  much  for  my  own  advantage  as 
for  that  of  my  friend.  It  is  true  that  often 
in  whole-hearted  giving  we  find  ourselves 
in  the  end  richer  than  before.  But  that 
was  not  contemplated.  What  we  sought 
was  impoverishment  for  another’s  gain, 
and  it  is  that  purpose  which  constitutes  a 
gift. 

As  regards  what  is  given,  a few  words 
may  be  well.  All  gifts  are  not  of  the  same 
grade.  In  thinking  of  them  we  generally 
have  in  mind  parting  with  a piece  of  prop- 
erty. But  this  is  the  slenderest  of  gifts. 
Accordingly  in  my  definition,  side  by  side 
with  possessions,  I named  a superior  sort 
of  gift,  pleasures.  To  detach  a pleasure 
from  myself  for  another’s  sake,  and  to  suc- 
ceed in  the  difficult  business  of  transferring 
it  from  my  enjoyment  to  his,  is  surely  a 
larger  gift  than  parting  with  a piece  of 
property.  Indeed,  even  in  giving  an  ar- 
ticle, I felt  the  pleasure  involved  in  it  to 
be  the  important  matter.  Having  been 
pleased  with  it  myself  I trusted  it  would 


GIFTS 


35 


bring  my  friend  pleasure  too.  The  article 
was  a mere  means,  a subordinate  part  of 
the  affair.  Could  I convey  as  much  plea- 
sure without  it,  the  gift  would  gain  in 
delicacy.  Suppose  then  on  a beautiful 
afternoon,  when  I have  been  bending  over 
my  work  all  the  morning,  I am  offered  a 
ride  in  the  country.  A friend  is  standing 
beside  me,  and  to  him  I turn.  “You  take 
this  seat.  I do  not  care  to  go.  You  need 
it  more  than  I.”  And  knowing  full  well 
the  refreshment  that  will  be  had,  I per- 
suade him  to  take  my  place.  Here  is  a 
gift  of  a higher  order  than  a mere  piece  of 
property.  Its  substance  is  taken  more  di- 
rectly out  of  myself. 

But  there  are  gifts  higher  still,  for  we 
may  give  sections  of  ourselves  more  im- 
portant than  pleasure.  I may  allow  my- 
self to  stagnate  in  order  that  my  friend 
may  grow.  In  filling  out  his  nature,  let 
him  not  merely  use  me;  let  his  use  me  up. 
Here  altruism  reaches  its  highest  point  in 
self-sacrifice.  Yet  instances  of  it  are  com- 
mon. In  almost  every  home  in  the  land 
something  like  this  is  going  on.  In  many 
households  parents  are  saying:  “That  boy 
shall  have  the  opportunities  which  we  al- 


36 


ALTRUISM 


ways  longed  for  but  could  not  attain.  He 
shall  go  to  college.  A little  pinching  on  our 
part  will  make  it  possible.”  And  so  the 
boy  goes  joyously  forth  into  an  invigorat- 
ing world,  provided  by  the  narrowing  life 
of  those  at  home.  Such  gifts  are  incom- 
parable. They  are  gifts  of  life-blood. 

Or  do  I distort  this  consummate  altru- 
ism by  calling  it  sacrifice?  At  least  this 
should  be  added,  that  true  sacrifice  never 
knows  itself  to  be  sacrifice.  Joyously  the 
parents  send  their  boy  forth  and  joyously 
accept  their  own  narrow  routine.  They  do 
so  feeling  that  he  to  whom  they  are  giving 
their  life  is  inseparable  from  themselves. 
They  have  learned  to  merge  their  abstract 
isolated  self  in  him  and  to  conceive  them- 
selves as  living  the  larger  conjunct  life 
with  him  in  his  new  opportunities.  How 
exquisitely  astonished  are  the  men  in  the 
parable  when  called  on  to  receive  reward 
for  their  generous  gifts ! “Lord,  when  saw 
we  thee  an  hungered  and  fed  thee,  or 
thirsty  and  gave  thee  drink?  When  saw 
we  thee  sick  or  in  prison  and  came  unto 
thee  ? ” They  thought  they  had  only  been 
following  their  own  desires. 

Here,  then,  giving  seems  to  supersede  it- 


GIFTS 


37 


self,  the  giver  receiving  quite  as  much  as 
he  bestows.  And  some  such  paradox  is 
unavoidable  so  long  as  the  thought  of  self 
remains  properly  ambiguous.  Our  early 
English  moralists  saw  no  ambiguity  in  it. 
They  understood  by  self  the  abstract, 
unrelated  individual.  They  were  conse- 
quently so  puzzled  by  benevolence  as  often 
to  deny  it  altogether.  In  our  age  of  social 
consciousness  the  puzzle  has  largely  disap- 
peared. We  see  giving  to  be  as  natural  as 
getting,  and  hardly  to  be  distinguished 
from  it.  But  it  will  be  well  before  advanc- 
ing to  criticise  the  higher  forms  of  altruism 
to  fix  firmly  in  mind  some  classic  state- 
ment of  the  two  conceptions  and  once  for 
all  to  see  how  absurd  each  looks  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  other.  When  our 
Lord  hung  upon  the  cross  the  jeering  sol- 
diers cried:  “He  saved  others;  himself  he 
cannot  save!”  No,  he  could  not;  and  his 
inability  seemed  to  them  ridiculous,  while 
it  was  in  reality  his  glory.  His  true  self  he 
was  saving,  himself  and  all  mankind,  the 
only  self  he  valued. 

Giving  has  always  impressed  mankind 
as  singularly  noble.  Indeed,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  many  it  outclasses  all  other  ex- 


38 


ALTRUISM 


cellence  and  is  the  only  human  action  to 
call  forth  reverence.  So  nearly  does  gen- 
erosity become  identified  with  goodness 
that  if  I should  ask  a man  whether  John 
Smith  was  good  to  him  yesterday  I should 
be  understood  to  ask  if  he  gave  unselfish 
attention  to  that  man’s  affairs.  Goodness 
in  this  sense,  the  disposition  to  give,  will  in 
the  popular  mind  cover  a multitude  of 
sins.  In  how  many  stories  have  past  ages 
taken  pleasure  where  the  robber  hero, 
crafty,  merciless,  and  generous,  bestows 
upon  the  poor  plunder  taken  from  the  rich. 
The  man  ready  to  give,  whatever  else  his 
quality,  seemed  to  our  ancestors  always  to 
deserve  admiration. 

We  have  become  suspicious.  There  is  a 
disposition  to-day  to  question  this  whole- 
sale praise  of  giving  and  to  suggest  that  it 
is  not  free  from  danger.  Instead  of  promot- 
ing public  welfare,  generosity  may  some- 
times impoverish  the  community.  It  may 
lead  people  to  depend  on  others,  instead  of 
standing  on  their  own  feet.  And  what  a 
general  weakening  follows  ! The  two  classes 
into  which  Society  always  tends  to  fall  be- 
come more  sharply  contrasted — the  rich, 
amusing  themselves  from  time  to  time  with 


GIFTS 


39 


officious  charity,  and  the  poor  through  ac- 
cepting it  steadily  growing  more  helpless 
and  cringing.  Our  fathers,  less  studious 
of  society  than  we,  did  not  perceive  these 
dangers,  but  only  the  evils  of  selfishness. 
They  accordingly  eulogized  giving,  what- 
ever and  wherever  it  was.  If  a man  asks 
for  your  outer  garment,  give  him  your  in- 
ner one  also.  Give  without  calculating  re- 
sults. 

Against  all  this  a reaction  has  set  in.  It 
is  now  insisted  that  giving  should  no  more 
be  freed  from  rational  control  than  any 
other  impulse.  It  is  too  important  a mat- 
ter to  be  left  to  caprice  and  pursued  merely 
to  give  the  giver  ease.  It  should  be  scien- 
tifically treated.  The  circumstances  should 
be  studied  under  which  gifts  may  be  per- 
mitted and  under  which  withheld.  We 
should  be  clear  about  the  proper  grounds 
for  giving.  Simply  because  somebody  takes 
pleasure  in  giving  he  must  not  be  allowed 
that  pleasure  where  it  becomes  detrimental 
to  the  community  at  large. 

Such  are  the  questionings  of  our  time. 
In  studying  this  high  form  of  altruism  I 
cannot  pass  them  by.  I may  fairly  be 
asked  to  indicate  when  it  will  be  safe  to 


40 


ALTRUISM 


open  the  hand  freely  and  when  we  had 
better  keep  it  somewhat  closed.  As  I try 
to  classify  the  conditions  of  giving,  I no- 
tice that  two  are  grounded  in  the  nature  of 
the  receiver  and  two  in  the  nature  of  the 
giver;  and  in  that  order  I will  take  them  up. 

Obviously,  the  first  condition  to  be  con- 
sidered is  the  receiver’s  assured  need. 
When  we  see  need  and  have  the  means  to 
check  it  we  naturally  spring  forward  and 
give  with  reference  to  that  particular  need. 
If  a man  needs  food,  I do  not  offer  him  a 
theatre  ticket;  though  if  I found  him  worn 
with  business  and  needing  recreation  such 
a gift  would  be  appropriate.  This  adapta- 
tion is  the  important  matter  in  all  true 
giving.  “Find  out  men’s  wants  and  wills, 
and  meet  them  there,”  says  an  old  poet. 
To  give  anything  that  happens  to  come 
into  my  mind  is  selfish  and  shows  me  un- 
willing to  take  trouble  for  another’s  sake; 
that  is,  I am  shown  to  lack  the  very  spirit 
of  a giver.  The  same  considerations  fix  the 
magnitude  of  the  gift.  A small  amount 
given  for  a large  need  is  often  useless  and 
exasperating;  a large  amount  for  a small 
need,  wasteful  and  corrupting.  Wise  giv- 
ing demands  an  obedient  mind  attentive 


GIFTS 


41 


to  another’s  requirements  and  not  head- 
strong in  insistence  on  one’s  own  way.  If 
there  is  any  worth  in  giving,  to  keep  that 
giving  clear  of  waste  and  make  it  as  effec- 
tive as  possible  becomes  an  urgent  duty. 

I have  already  distinguished  three  varie- 
ties of  gift:  articles  of  my  own  possession, 
pleasures  which  might  be  mine  diverted  to 
another,  and  a means  of  growth  imparted 
to  another  at  my  own  cost.  These  form 
successively  higher  stages  of  giving,  the 
greatest  gift  of  all  being,  in  my  judgment, 
the  gift  of  growth.  Curiously  enough,  Kant 
denounces  this  as  immoral.  Man,  he 
urges,  is  a person,  the  only  being,  so  far  as 
we  know,  who  is  capable  of  self-develop- 
ment. To  attempt  to  take  away  this  power 
and  substitute  another’s  developing  agency 
is  an  intrusion.  A man’s  growth  is  the 
business  of  no  one  but  himself.  If  another 
person  can  scatter  a pleasure  or  two  in  his 
path,  it  is  a worthy  altruistic  act.  But  for 
any  one  but  himself  to  undertake  his  con- 
struction is  presumptuous  and,  indeed,  im- 
possible. In  building  a house  we  use 
plastic  material,  which  has  no  will.  But  a 
person  is  essentially  active,  self-directed, 
and  beyond  the  reach  of  agencies  other 


42 


ALTRUISM 


than  his  own.  When  we  teachers  offer  to 
make  our  pupils  wiser,  we  promise  what 
we  cannot  perform.  Ourselves  we  can 
make  wiser.  To  our  pupils  we  can  only 
offer  material  for  their  use.  We  may  tell 
them  that  by  devoting  themselves  to  study 
they  will  reach  capacious  lives.  But  such 
lives  we  have  no  power  to  bestow.  If  our 
suggestions  are  rejected,  we  are  helpless. 
Such  is  Kant’s  extreme  theory.  But  has 
he  gone  far  enough?  Have  I any  more 
ability  to  impart  a pleasure?  I certainly 
cannot  pick  up  a pleasure  and  put  it  into 
another  person,  regardless  of  how  it  will 
be  received.  There  must  be  co-operation. 
The  receiver  may  turn  it  into  either  plea- 
sure or  pain.  Kant’s  objection  applies  with 
nearly  equal  force  against  the  giving  of 
pleasures.  In  both  cases  we  merely  pro- 
vide material,  subject  to  acceptance  or  re- 
jection, material  which  has  proved  use- 
ful in  many  previous  cases.  I give  my 
friend  a ticket  to  the  theatre,  bidding  him 
enjoy  himself  and  get  the  refreshment  he 
needs.  But  I cannot  be  sure  what  he  will 
get.  He  may  be  bored  and  wish  he  had 
stayed  at  home.  There  are  great  uncer- 
tainties in  gifts,  for  their  receivers  are  in- 


GIFTS 


43 


deed  persons,  the  least  calculable  of  all 
beings.  A piece  of  property  I can  convey 
to  a person  with  some  certainty  that  he  has 
received  it.  But  whether  it  will  mean  for 
him  what  it  meant  for  me  I cannot  tell. 
In  all  the  best  affairs  of  life  there  is  risk. 

If  the  risks  in  offering  opportunities  of 
growth  are  somewhat  greater  than  in  the 
case  of  other  forms  of  gift,  the  need  is 
greater  too,  and  the  results,  if  accomplished, 
more  considerable.  Arrangements  for  gifts 
of  this  highest  sort  are  often  properly  made 
on  a vast  scale.  They  include  churches, 
colleges,  schools,  lecture-foundations,  mu- 
seums. These  are  all  public  agencies  for 
promoting  growth.  The  private  means  are 
surer,  family  life.  Yet  here  how  often 
parents  will  offer  gifts  of  an  inferior  sort, 
things  or  pleasures,  careless  whether  they 
meet  the  needs  of  growth.  The  truest 
benefactor  is  he  who  is  willing  to  disap- 
point or  pain  us  if  by  so  doing  he  can  open 
doors  for  ampler  powers.  Our  greatest 
need  is  for  enlargement.  Whoever  con- 
tributes to  that  is  our  most  beneficent  giver. 

But  human  need  is  only  one  of  the  two 
claims  to  gifts  grounded  in  the  nature  of 
the  receiver.  We  should  likewise  pay  at- 


44 


ALTRUISM 


tention  to  numbers.  If  I have  a loaf  of 
bread  to  give  away,  and  all  about  me  hun- 
gry persons  stand,  I do  wrong  in  handing 
half  of  it  to  one  of  them  for  a hearty  meal 
and  putting  off  the  others,  equally  needy, 
with  a small  slice.  At  the  beginning  I 
should  have  studied  numbers  and  kept  a 
fair  distribution  in  mind.  In  these  days 
when  every  mail  brings  us  three  or  four 
demands  for  subscriptions  to  excellent 
causes,  which  we  would  gladly  aid,  the 
question  of  distribution  becomes  perplexing. 
We  wish  to  make  our  gifts  go  as  far  as 
possible.  If  we  are  hardy  and  dutiful,  we 
plan  according  to  need  and  number;  if 
weak  and  compliant,  we  meet  each  solicit- 
ing letter  with  a formal  subscription,  just 
enough  to  be  counted,  and  feel  ourselves 
discharged  from  a difficult  problem. 

In  my  own  experience  it  has  been  helpful 
to  readjust  slightly  the  conception  of  num- 
ber and  to  consider  rather  the  scope  of  a 
gift.  Many  years  ago  a wealthy  man  in 
the  West,  who  had  worked  his  way  through 
Harvard  University,  said  to  me  that  he 
knew  there  were  many  men  at  Harvard  of 
decided  worth  but  unable  to  get  the  full 
benefit  of  the  place  through  lack  of  funds. 


GIFTS 


45 


He  asked  if  he  might  leave  a sum  of  money 
with  me  for  their  benefit.  I was  not  to 
disclose  his  name,  was  to  expend  the  money 
as  if  it  were  my  own,  selecting  the  recipi- 
ents quietly  through  personal  acquaintance 
and  giving  account  to  nobody.  I gladly 
assented  and  anticipated  easy  and  de- 
lightful work  in  distributing  bounty  where 
need  was  abundant.  But  I soon  discovered 
that  giving  money  away  was  about  as 
difficult  as  earning  it.  I was  to  make  in- 
vestments, with  returns  in  human  power 
and  character — called  on  therefore  to  exer- 
cise no  less  pains  and  sagacity  than  if  the 
investment  were  for  my  own  benefit.  I be- 
lieve now  that  much  of  the  money  I at 
first  gave  away  had  been  better  thrown 
into  the  sea.  It  did  little  good  to  the  one 
who  received  it,  and  still  less  to  the  public. 
I was  too  tender-hearted  and  fixed  my 
mind  too  exclusively  on  the  hardships  of 
some  particular  student.  Pity  is  dangerous 
stuff  for  a charity  administrator.  Gradu- 
ally I learned  that  my  true  object  of  con- 
sideration should  not  be  the  individual 
student  but  the  community.  Through  the 
student  I was  to  give  to  the  public.  And 
would  that  student  be  a good  transmitter? 


46 


ALTRUISM 


That  became  my  constant  question.  In 
studying  how  my  gifts  might  get  the  wid- 
est scope,  I gradually  formulated  the  maxim 
to  help  only  the  strong  and  let  the  feeble 
sink.  A merciless  maxim  it  appears  at 
first,  and  always  requiring  subtlety  in  ap- 
plication. But  what  right  have  I,  in  in- 
vesting property  for  the  public  good,  to 
ignore  questions  of  return?  A powerful 
lawyer,  doctor,  business  man,  poet,  min- 
ister, or  public-spirited  citizen  brings  bless- 
ing to  a multitude,  and  I am  allowed  to 
share  in  the  shaping  of  that  blessing.  Shall 
I withdraw  funds  from  such  a cause  and 
invest  them  in  stock  of  slender  security 
and  low  interest,  where  they  can  at  best 
only  ease  the  discomfort  of  an  individual? 
That  would  be  to  overlook  the  scope  of  my 
gift.  I used  to  tell  my  boys  that  the  aid 
was  not  intended  for  their  relief,  but  for 
the  relief  of  society  to  which  they  must 
carry  forth  heightened  powers.  And  this, 
I think,  should  be  the  method  in  all  chari- 
table outlay  if  we  would  give  to  limited 
means  the  broadest  range  of  influence. 

These,  then,  need  and  numbers  or  scope, 
are  the  conditions  of  giving  so  far  as  the 
receiver  is  concerned.  By  studying  them 


GIFTS 


47 


we  learn  how  to  proportion  our  gifts.  Two 
more  remain,  equally  important,  grounded 
in  the  nature  of  the  giver.  They  are  his 
ability  and  his  knowledge;  but  the  former, 
like  number,  will  oblige  us  to  examine  it 
from  a twofold  point  of  view. 

That  we  are  to  give  only  according  to 
our  ability  seems  almost  too  obvious  to 
state;  yet  it  is  something  we  must  never 
lose  sight  of.  In  making  this  gift  shall  I 
have  enough  left  for  that?  That  is  our 
constant  question.  In  answering  it  I see 
that  ability  is  only  another  name  for  an 
already  accumulated  wealth.  If  our  abil- 
ity to  give  is  to  be  large,  we  must  in  past 
time,  before  the  demand  arose,  have  ac- 
cumulated stock,  in  which  accumulation 
we  are  likely  to  receive  small  approval 
from  anybody.  Spending  is  showy  and 
interesting.  It  has  a liberal  air  which  all 
commend.  While  engaged  in  it  we  shall 
not  lack  those  who  will  cheer  us  on.  But 
saving  is  repulsive  and  suspicious,  seldom 
calling  out  praise;  yet  it  is  an  absolute  es- 
sential of  subsequent  giving.  The  wealth 
accumulated  may  be  of  many  kinds — 
money,  learning,  sound  judgment — but  it 
must  be  gathered  in  the  dark,  before  the 


48 


ALTRUISM 


demand  for  its  use  becomes  clear.  How 
humiliating,  when  need  arises  and  the  dis- 
position to  aid  is  upon  us,  to  look  into  our 
treasury  and  find  it  empty ! A perplexed 
soul  turns  to  us  for  wise  counsel  and  we 
are  obliged  to  tell  him,  if  we  are  honest, 
that  we  have  never  trained  ourselves  in 
careful  thought  and  should  only  mislead 
him  by  random  suggestions.  Preparation 
beforehand  for  the  numberless  occasions  of 
giving  is  the  perpetual  business  of  the  gen- 
erous mind.  So,  at  least,  thought  Jesus. 
“For  their  sakes  I sanctify  myself.” 

Other  persons,  I said,  are  little  likely  to 
assist  us  here  and  are  perhaps  justly  sus- 
picious. Accumulation  is  likely  enough  to 
be  prompted  by  selfishness.  When  a man 
withdraws  from  his  fellows  every  day  to  his 
study  or  store,  and  isolated  there  with  his 
own  interests  regards  little  besides  inflow- 
ing wealth,  he  certainly  looks  self-centred, 
may  actually  be  so,  and  should  by  no 
means  complain  if  misunderstood.  Being 
misunderstood  is,  after  all,  not  unhealthy. 
Without  exposing  ourselves  to  that  risk 
few  of  us  can  reach  our  full  power  of  altru- 
istic service.  We  need  to  train  ourselves 
for  kindness  in  the  long  run,  with  some 


GIFTS 


49 


carelessness  as  regards  the  conflicting 
short. 

I have  been  pointing  out  how  largely  our 
ability  to  give  depends  on  an  already  ac- 
cumulated wealth.  But  into  ability  enters 
one  thing  more,  tact.  Without  a good  sup- 
ply of  this,  giving  irritates  and  misses  its 
mark.  But  tact  is  a word  of  evil  omen  and 
has  such  synonyms  as  slyness,  adroitness. 
I am  supposed  to  adjust  myself  to  the  pe- 
culiarities of  somebody  in  order  securely 
to  gain  what  he  would  be  little  disposed  to 
give.  I have  studied  the  windings  of  his 
mind  and  know  just  the  side  on  which  to 
approach  him.  I set  myself  in  the  very 
best  light,  play  on  his  weaknesses,  and 
skilfully  obtain  much  which  in  his  unman- 
aged moods  he  would  never  think  of  grant- 
ing. Well,  tact  is  often  exercised  in  this 
self-seeking  fashion.  But  that  is  because 
it  is  a great  power,  egoistic  or  altruistic.  It 
may  be  employed  with  either  aim.  A good 
giver  needs  it  no  less  than  a selfish  schemer. 
How  many  would-be  givers  do  we  know 
who  come  blundering  up  with  gifts  and 
drop  them  upon  us  in  a way  which  utterly 
shocks  and  makes  us  unwilling  to  receive 
them.  Others  have  taken  some  trouble  to 


50 


ALTRUISM 


be  kind,  have  acquainted  themselves  with 
our  circumstances,  have  been  able  to  out- 
flank our  delicacies  and  hesitations,  and  so 
to  make  their  gift  received  with  the  least 
sense  of  intrusion  or  obligation.  What  an 
exquisite  fine  art  giving  may  be,  and  how 
it  increases  altruistic  power ! But  it  is  ac- 
quired with  effort  and  will  be  effective  only 
after  it  has  become  instinctive.  As  in  the 
case  of  wealth,  the  gaining  of  it  must  not 
be  postponed  to  the  time  when  it  is  needed. 
That  will  bring  merely  awkwardness  and 
disappointment.  It  must  be  accumulated 
beforehand.  One  desiring  altruistic  skill 
should  be  training  himself  perpetually:  as 
he  walks  the  street,  as  he  meets  an  ac- 
quaintance, as  he  enters  a shop,  as  he  sits 
at  table.  Every  situation  affords  oppor- 
tunity for  swiftly  sympathetic  adjustment, 
for  removing  self-absorption  and  substitut- 
ing for  it  that  generous  imagination  with- 
out which  no  gift  is  acceptable.  A well- 
equipped  giver,  putting  himself  imagina- 
tively in  the  other  man’s  place,  perceives 
at  once  how  his  gift  may  be  most  easily  re- 
ceived. 

But  besides  ability,  with  its  two  branches 
of  wealth  and  tact,  there  is  a final  condition 


GIFTS 


51 


grounded  in  the  giver,  that  of  knowledge. 
Of  course,  we  cannot  give  properly  unless 
we  understand  the  case,  and  the  larger  our 
understanding  the  greater  is  our  obliga- 
tion to  aid.  These  simple  truths  illuminate 
some  moral  perplexities.  I read  a while 
ago  of  a famine  in  China.  Crops  had 
failed  and  there  was  wide-spread  suffering. 
Tragic  tales  were  reported.  In  the  next 
column  of  the  paper  was  an  account  of  air- 
plane construction.  I found  both  columns 
interesting.  The  same  day  a man  I knew 
broke  his  leg.  An  awful  affair ! I hurried 
to  his  bedside  and  could  think  of  nothing 
else  than  how  I might  help.  Then  it  oc- 
curred to  me  how  disproportioned  were  my 
sympathies.  Thousands  of  squalid  deaths 
on  the  other  side  of  the  globe  made  a spec- 
tacular newspaper  item.  A broken  leg  next 
door  engrossed  me  and  called  out  all  my 
resources.  We  have  all  had  the  experience 
and,  on  first  reflection,  have  called  our- 
selves selfish  brutes.  But  I believe  that 
is  an  error.  Helpful  sympathy  waits  on 
knowledge  and  proportions  itself  by  this 
rather  than  by  objective  need.  The  suf- 
ferings of  China  are  known  to  us  only  ab- 
stractly and  in  outline,  and  only  in  outline 


52 


ALTRUISM 


can  our  sympathies  be  accorded.  But  a 
case  which  comes  under  our  immediate  in- 
spection, disclosing  all  its  significant  de- 
tails, is  a different  matter  and  lays  upon  us 
a claim  of  giving  which  the  other  rightly 
does  not.  Nearness  counts.  Knowledge 
heightens  obligation.  I would  not  defend 
absorption  in  our  narrow  circle.  I have 
just  been  urging  the  constant  enlargement 
of  sympathetic  knowledge.  But  we  should 
never  ignore  the  fact  that  the  unknown  is 
not  as  the  known  and  that  only  in  propor- 
tion as  we  know  can  we  advantageously 
help. 

Through  overlooking  these  necessary  limi- 
tations of  human  sympathy  the  Stoics  were 
led  to  denounce  patriotism.  We  should 
honor  man  as  man.  Why,  then,  regard 
an  American  sufferer  more  than  a Chinese  ? 
Because  he  is  my  countryman.  But  that 
rests  philanthropy  on  selfishness  and  makes 
the  needy  person’s  relation  to  me  of  more 
consequence  than  his  suffering.  The  no- 
tion of  patriotism  which  masquerades  as  a 
virtue  should  be  denounced  as  a vice.  All 
will  recognize  in  such  an  argument  a valu- 
able protest  against  narrowness.  But  few 
will  accept  the  principle  on  which  it  rests. 


GIFTS 


53 


All  men  are  not  alike.  Relation  to  me  does 
constitute  a special  moral  claim.  Shall  I 
treat  my  mother  as  I would  any  other  old 
lady,  as  the  apple  woman  at  the  corner? 
I say  no;  and  the  ground  of  different  treat- 
ment I do  not  find  in  selfishness  but  in 
superior  knowledge.  I have  known  my 
mother  ever  since  I was  born.  In  early 
years  she  studied  my  needs  and  now  she  is 
my  special  charge.  I comprehend  what 
she  requires  in  heart,  mind,  and  person  as 
I can  comprehend  those  of  no  other  woman. 
It  is  at  least  uneconomical  to  lay  aside  all 
this  equipment  for  service  and  give  her 
only  the  care  a stranger  might  receive  from 
me.  The  family  tie  means  something.  The 
tie  of  country  means  something.  I know 
the  habits  of  thought,  the  half-conscious 
turns  of  feeling,  of  my  own  people.  In 
understanding  a person  of  another  nation 
I go  about  so  far,  and  then  run  up  against 
a brick  wall,  beyond  which  all  is  blind. 
This  measure  of  possible  understanding  is 
the  measure  of  duty.  Knowledge  forms 
one  of  the  two  conditions  of  giving  grounded 
in  the  nature  of  the  giver. 

Such  are  the  conditions  which  the  mod- 
em mind  would  set  upon  giving.  Our 


54 


ALTRUISM 


fathers  paid  little  attention  to  them.  Giv- 
ing was  in  their  eyes  the  crowning  virtue 
and  they  were  unwilling  to  shut  it  within 
bounds.  Wherever  need  appeared  they 
urged  one  another  to  meet  it  with  chari- 
ty, pretty  indifferent  to  considerations  of 
knowledge,  ability,  or  social  result.  The 
altruistic  purpose  was  so  admirable  that  it 
seemed  to  require  no  scrutiny  in  applica- 
tion. But  we  are  not  content  to  leave  any- 
thing uncriticised  and  have  endeavored  to 
rationalize  even  giving.  Not  altogether 
with  success,  however.  On  examining 
closely  the  conditions  I have  assembled, 
certain  inner  conflicts  will  be  noticed. 
Take,  for  example,  the  case  of  need;  when 
another’s  need  is  greatest  my  ability  is 
least.  Ability  does  not  accompany  need, 
increasing  with  its  increase,  but  tends  either 
to  remain  stationary  or  to  fall  behind  as 
need  grows.  A somewhat  similar  conflict 
is  unavoidable  between  knowledge  and 
numbers.  I have  shown  that  as  numbers 
grow  large  they  become  empty  ciphers. 
The  mind  cannot  grasp  their  human  and 
detailed  significance.  Regrettable  as  this 
fact  is,  we  had  better  recognize  it  as  in- 
evitable, accepting  as  our  particular  charge 


GIFTS 


55 


those  instances  of  need  which  lie  sufficiently 
near  for  careful  inspection  and  leaving  the 
more  vast  and  distant  to  be  cared  for  by 
special  experts,  supplied  with  our  means 
but  not  our  ignorance.  Much  of  our  best 
charity  must  be  exercised  by  deputy. 

The  fact  that  gifts  cannot  be  entirely 
rationalized  suggests  a doubt  whether  they 
can  form  more  than  a subordinate  instru- 
ment for  expressing  altruism.  By  what 
means  can  their  defects  be  remedied?  To 
answering  such  questions  the  next  chapter 
will  be  devoted. 


CHAPTER  IV 
DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 

A colleague  of  mine,  an  excellent  clas- 
sical scholar,  received  by  bequest  an  ad- 
mirable collection  of  Latin  authors.  In  the 
writers  themselves,  in  the  choice  editions, 
and  the  appropriate  bindings  he  took  ex- 
treme pleasure.  When  talking  with  him 
about  them  one  day  I asked  what  he  in- 
tended to  do  with  the  books  at  his  death. 
Would  he  have  them  given  to  another 
Latinist  as  fine  as  himself?  Or  would  he 
have  them  go  to  some  college  library  where 
any  one  might  use  them?  He  said  the 
question  had  often  puzzled  him,  but  he  had 
finally  decided  to  send  them  to  the  auction- 
room.  They  were  books  he  had  so  much 
loved  that  he  could  not  bear  to  have  them 
fall  into  unappreciative  hands.  If  he  gave 
them  away,  what  warrant  had  he  that  they 
would  be  prized?  If  they  were  sold,  no- 
body would  obtain  one  unless  he  were  will- 
ing to  get  it  by  some  sacrifice.  This  was 
not  a case  where  generosity  could  be 

56 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


57 


trusted.  Probably  the  matter  could  be 
more  wisely  settled  by  self-interest. 

This  instance  makes  evident  the  un- 
certain character  of  giving.  However  su- 
perior in  altruistic  fulness  gifts  are  to 
manners,  they  are  unfit,  unless  supple- 
mented by  some  other  principle,  to  form  a 
practical  rule  of  fife.  Let  us  examine  them 
in  detail  and  see  wherein  they  fail  to  em- 
body complete  altruism.  In  their  very 
nature  I find  them  to  be  exceptional,  ir- 
rational, and  condescending;  and  I will 
briefly  explain  each  of  these  points. 

Giving  is  occasional  and  fragmentary.  It 
cannot  occupy  a life.  The  great  body  of 
our  time  and  attention  must  be  directed 
upon  individual  interests.  I rise  in  the 
morning  after  eight  hours  of  sleep,  go  down- 
stairs to  breakfast,  take  my  walk  for  the 
needed  morning  exercise,  on  returning  look 
over  my  mail  and  the  morning  paper,  turn 
to  my  stu  lies,  to  my  meals,  to  calling  on  a 
friend.  It  is  all  egoistic.  No  doubt  during 
the  day  I am  repeatedly  summoned  to  at- 
tend to  other  people’s  affairs.  Begging 
letters,  interruptions,  engagements  of  a 
public  and  business  nature  are  not  absent. 
They  intervene  and  stand  out  isolated  in 


58 


ALTRUISM 


my  egoistic  day.  No  doubt,  too,  most  of 
my  occupation  with  myself — in  sleep,  food, 
exercise,  study — is  a necessary  preparation 
for  social  service.  All  I am  urging  is  that 
social  service  cannot  stand  alone.  It  re- 
quires a large  individualistic  background. 
The  care  one  gives  to  others  is  occasional, 
one  might  even  say  exceptional.  In  order 
to  be  able  to  meet  it,  our  primary  and  pre- 
ponderant care  must  be  given  to  ourselves. 
Such  a thing  as  interest  in  altruistic  giving, 
separate  from  personal  gain  and  estab- 
lished as  an  independent  guiding  principle, 
is  altogether  impossible.  Only  at  intervals 
comes  the  generous  act;  in  general,  we  are 
busied  with  our  own  affairs. 

On  this  inseparability  of  egoism  and 
altruism  I received  excellent  instruction 
many  years  ago  out  of  the  mouth  of  babes 
and  sucklings.  A couple  of  little  children, 
a girl  of  four  and  a boy  of  five  years  old, 
had  just  been  tucked  into  their  beds.  Their 
mother  in  the  next  room  heard  them  talk- 
ing. Listening  to  learn  if  they  needed  any- 
thing, she  found  them  discussing  one  of 
the  vast  problems  for  which  the  infant 
mind  seems  to  have  a natural  affinity. 
They  were  inquiring  why  we  were  ever  put 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


59 


into  the  world.  The  little  girl  suggested 
we  might  have  been  sent  here  to  help 
others.  “Why  no,  indeed,  Mabel,”  was 
her  big  brother’s  reply.  “Of  course  not; 
for  then  what  would  others  be  here  for?” 
Pertinent  reflection,  putting  the  answer  to 
one-sided  altruism  into  a nutshell ! If  our 
own  affairs  are  worthless,  why  suppose  they 
can  be  of  worth  to  others?  It  is  no  kind- 
ness to  bestow  on  another  what  has  never 
been  found  good  for  ourselves.  A gift 
should  cost  something.  Something  prop- 
erly valued  by  us  we  part  with  for  an- 
other’s sake.  A strong  egoistic  sense,  then, 
is  a condition  of  altruistic  action.  The 
latter  cannot  cover  the  whole  of  a life. 
No  man  is  benevolent  all  the  time,  but  ex- 
ceptionally, at  intervals,  when  regard  for 
himself  may  safely  be  withdrawn. 

A graver  defect  of  giving  is  its  arbitrary 
character.  Our  reformers  have  been  at- 
tempting to  rationalize  charity  and  cer- 
tainly have  devised  methods  by  which 
some  of  its  worst  evils  may  be  lessened. 
But  until  they  stop  it  altogether  they  will 
not  rid  it  of  irrational  wilfulness.  One 
would  say  that  in  kind  and  degree  my 
gift  should  answer  another’s  reasonable 


60 


ALTRUISM 


claim.  But  it  never  does.  A just  claim 
renders  a gift  impossible.  Gifts  come  from 
a region  outside  claims,  outside  rational 
justification.  They  are  the  expression  of 
arbitrary  will.  I give  because  I want  to, 
and  the  other  knows  he  has  no  right 
beyond  my  inclination  to  what  he  is  re- 
ceiving. Were  there  legitimate  grounds 
for  my  pretended  gift  it  would  be  merely 
the  payment  of  a debt  and  would  afford 
no  such  pleasure  as  does  the  over-and- 
above  of  a gift.  A clerk  may  have  satis- 
faction in  his  salary,  but  his  feeling  on 
receiving  his  employer’s  gift  is  something 
altogether  different.  The  gift  dropped 
from  the  sky.  He  had  no  idea  it  was  com- 
ing. He  really  had  done  nothing  to  de- 
serve it.  Others  might  have  had  it  equally 
well,  but  by  some  fancy  he  had  been  picked 
out  for  enrichment.  It  is  this  unexpected- 
ness, this  incalculably,  which  makes  a gift 
so  good.  Gifts  at  Christmas,  which  have 
been  systematized,  are  of  a paler  order. 
Even  in  these  there  is  usually  uncertainty 
enough  left  to  keep  them  agreeable.  Our 
regular  giver  may  decide  to  give  elsewhere 
this  year,  he  may  forget;  what  he  will  select 
we  cannot  guess.  The  important  part  of 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


61 


the  gift  is  not  its  intrinsic  worth  but  its  ex- 
pression of  the  giver’s  will.  Gladness  over 
the  former  springs  from  greed,  over  the 
latter  from  gratitude.  This  arbitrary  will 
on  the  giver’s  part  and  the  absence  of 
claim  in  the  receiver  make  a reasonable 
gift  hard  to  conceive.  To  be  a gift  at  all 
it  must  be  capricious,  undeserved,  and  only 
occasional. 

But  there  is  a feature  of  giving  more 
obnoxious  than  either  of  these  two,  yet  no 
less  deeply  rooted  in  giving  than  excep- 
tionality and  caprice.  A gift  has  always 
something  disparaging  about  it.  It  pro- 
fesses to  honor,  but  deep  in  the  heart  of  it 
there  is  disparagement,  condescension  at 
least.  I declare  another  to  be  better  than 
myself,  preferring  that  he  shall  be  the 
owner  of  something  prized  by  me.  Yet  in 
reality  I retain  the  superior  position  my- 
self and  make  the  one  whom  I honor  my 
dependent.  Rightly  did  Jesus  say:  “It  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive.”  How 
could  it  be  otherwise?  The  giver  is  the 
wealthy  man,  the  man  of  power  and  prefer- 
ence; the  receiver  confessedly  the  man  of 
need,  passive  to  another’s  will.  The  very 
attempt,  then,  that  I make  to  raise  him 


62 


ALTRUISM 


up  and  provide  him  with  something  ac- 
ceptable from  my  store  sets  him  beneath 
me.  He  lacks,  I abound.  At  the  very 
moment  when  turning  to  him  I say:  “I 
prefer  you  to  myself  and  desire  that  you 
rather  than  I should  possess  this,”  I am 
really  also  saying:  “But  by  all  right  it 
belongs  to  me  and  I part  with  it  as  its  and 
your  superior.”  However  glad,  therefore, 
we  may  be  to  get  our  wants  supplied,  a 
disagreeable  taste  is  apt  to  lurk  about  the 
acceptance  of  a gift.  A good  share  of 
humility  is  required  of  one  who  will  be  an 
altogether  happy  receiver,  a contented  in- 
ferior. Our  age  has  discovered  this  and 
has  grown  restive  over  charity.  It  would 
seem  that  in  past  ages  those  who  lacked 
the  things  that  make  life  worth  living  stood 
with  outstretched  hands  to  receive  them 
from  their  rightful  owners,  and  that  those 
who  owned  counted  it  a prerogative  of 
their  station  thus  to  assist  their  inferiors. 
But  this  humble  attitude  of  the  needy  is 
disappearing,  together  with  many  other 
traditions  of  aristocratic  days.  Our  poorer 
classes  now  have  too  much  self-respect  to 
be  at  ease  in  such  relations.  Certainly  the 
poor  to-day  are  vastly  better  off  than  at 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


63 


any  other  period  of  the  world’s  history,  yet 
never  more  discontented.  The  new  self- 
respect  which  has  come  with  easier  con- 
ditions makes  them  resent  charity  and 
dependence.  “Give  us  what  belongs  to 
us,”  they  seem  to  say.  “We  want  no 
benevolence.  If  a better  living  should  be 
ours,  we  will  take  it  as  of  right  but  not  by 
favor.  We  stand  on  our  own  feet,  acknowl- 
edging inferiority  to  no  man.”  This  re- 
jection of  charity  on  grounds  of  self-respect 
is  not  uncommon  to-day.  I have  met  it  in 
administering  the  little  trust  for  the  benefit 
of  students  of  which  I spoke.  And  though 
I do  not  altogether  sympathize  with  it,  I 
see  in  it  much  to  honor. 

Such  are  the  possible  humiliations  of  the 
receiver.  But  the  giver  is  exposed  to 
dangers  hardly  less.  His  gifts  may  be  self- 
ish rather  than  generous.  Few  pleasures 
are  greater  than  giving.  In  it  we  feel  our 
power  and  catch  a sense  of  the  creative 
efficiency  of  our  will.  One  often  gives  for 
the  sake  of  indulging  this  self-assertion, 
with  small  regard  for  the  receiver.  Then 
too,  while  a true  gift  costs  the  giver  some- 
thing, he  who  gives  out  of  his  abundance 
may  hardly  feel  the  loss,  though  feeling  full 


64 


ALTRUISM 


well  the  glow  of  raising  the  helpless  to 
prosperity.  That  glow  is  by  no  means 
reprehensible.  It  is  one  of  our  purest 
pleasures. 

“All  earthly  joys  go  less 
To  the  one  joy  of  doing  kindnesses.” 

But  it  should  not  be  reckoned  as  gen- 
erosity. Should  we  not,  too,  in  estimating 
the  altruistic  worth  of  gifts  deduct  the 
many  seeming  gifts  which  are  prompted  by 
shame?  When  asked  for  a subscription,  I 
cannot  well  refuse  and  continue  to  hold  my 
place  in  public  esteem.  Noblesse  oblige. 
One  must  pay  for  dignity.  It  will  not  do, 
then,  to  assume  that  giving  is  always  an 
altruistic  act.  It  may  be.  Yet  even  where 
it  is  genuinely  addressed  to  improving  the 
condition  of  some  needy  person,  the  danger 
is  not  absent  of  lowering  the  independence 
of  that  other,  of  making  him  through  our 
will  our  conscious  inferior,  and  accordingly 
implying  disparagement  in  our  very  bounty. 
If  in  giving  we  always  keep  the  better  end 
of  the  transaction  for  ourselves  and  hand 
the  poorer  to  another,  few  adjustments  of 
social  life  will  call  for  more  tact. 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


65 


Yet  we  are  all  of  us  receivers  and  gen- 
erally manage  to  be  such  without  loss  of 
dignity.  Under  what  circumstances  may 
we  and  may  we  not  preserve  our  self-respect 
and  still  take  money?  If  a stranger  pass- 
ing me  on  the  street  hands  me  a five-dollar 
bill,  I should  feel  myself  disgraced  if  it 
went  into  my  pocket.  If  one  I did  not 
know  wrote  from  a distant  State  his  en- 
joyment of  a book  of  mine,  enclosing  a 
check,  I should  return  the  check.  If  find- 
ing a person  in  distress  and  helping  him  he 
offered  me  money,  I should  refuse  it.  In- 
dependence is  dear  to  most  of  us  and  we 
do  not  care  to  part  with  it  on  grounds  so 
casual.  This  is  the  condemnation  of  “tip- 
ping,” that  abominable  practice  introduced 
from  countries  more  servile  than  ours.  It 
cheapens  him  who  gives  and  him  who 
takes.  I see  only  four  occasions  where  the 
acceptance  of  money  is  compatible  with 
manhood. 

Where  misery  is  so  abject  that  self-help 
is  impossible  it  is  no  disgrace  to  confess 
inferiority  and  lean  on  a supporting  arm. 
Only  we  must  insist  that  as  strength  re- 
turns the  arm  be  withdrawn.  Permanent 
invalidism  is  an  insidious  danger.  The 


66 


ALTRUISM 


second  and  best  accredited  ground  for 
taking  money  honorably  is  that  of  money 
earned.  Here  I give  as  much  as  I receive. 
Each  of  the  two  parties  at  some  cost  gets 
what  he  desires  and  each  gives  with  refer- 
ence to  another’s  need.  No  doubt  there 
are  degrees  of  dignity  in  the  work  done. 
If  as  a physician  I sell  intellectual  power 
and  special  knowledge,  I am  naturally 
honored  more  than  if  as  a day  laborer  I 
sell  only  physical  exertion.  But  work  and 
wages  are  in  themselves  honorable,  so  that 
if  ten  cents  is  of  more  consequence  to  me 
than  getting  my  hands  dirty,  I am  not  dis- 
graced by  blacking  another  man’s  shoes. 

A third  case  is  of  almost  equal  impor- 
tance, though  more  complicated  and  more 
liable  to  error.  We  may  accept  money  in 
trust,  receiving  it  from  an  individual  and 
returning  its  results  to  the  public.  I have 
already  spoken  of  this  in  connection  with 
scholarship  aids.  Aids  for  advanced  re- 
search, whether  from  the  government  or 
private  foundations,  are  of  the  same  na- 
ture. To  be  selected  for  such  aid  is  a high 
honor,  justified,  however,  only  by  the  re- 
ceiver’s proving  himself  a good  transmitter. 
He  should  regard  the  money  as  given  not 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


67 


to  him  but  through  him  and  be  sure  that 
ultimately  it  reaches  some  mark  other  than 
himself.  This  may  be  accomplished  by  re- 
turning an  equal  sum  to  the  source  from 
which  the  aid  came,  by  helping  some  other 
person  equally  needy,  or  by  dedicating  to 
public  service  powers  raised  by  such  aid 
from  ordinary  to  superior  rank.  Equiva- 
lence should  be  brought  about.  In  some 
way  the  one  benefited  should  put  back 
what  he  has  received.  If  he  allows  it  to 
stick  in  himself,  untransmitted,  he  is  dis- 
graced. 

I reserve  to  the  last  the  completest 
ground  of  acceptance,  love.  Where  love 
is,  there  is  no  superior  or  inferior,  no  giver 
or  receiver.  The  two  make  up  a conjunct 
self  with  mutual  gain.  Or  shall  we  say 
that  he  who  loves  delights  to  think  of  him- 
self as  inferior,  prides  himself  on  it,  and 
would  be  ashamed  not  to  look  up  in  glow- 
ing dependence?  To  him,  therefore,  gifts 
bring  no  disparagement,  but  happy  grati- 
tude. In  such  unabashed  dependence  most 
of  us  spent  our  early  years.  And  if  as  we 
grew  strong  fewer  gifts  of  money  came  to 
us,  their  place  was  taken  by  loving  tokens 
more  subtle,  more  pervasive,  and  coming 


68 


ALTRUISM 


from  more  sources.  Possibly  we  may  say 
that  only  love  and  exchange  make  the  tak- 
ing of  money  permissible,  and  that  my  first 
and  third  grounds  are  only  special  cases  of 
these  two.  It  has  been  well  said  that  there 
can  be  true  giving  only  where  the  two 
parties  ideally  change  places:  the  giver  so 
putting  himself  in  the  receiver’s  place  that 
he  feels  the  afforded  relief  a personal  gain; 
and  the  receiver  sharing  the  pleasure  which 
under  the  circumstances  the  giver  must 
feel.  There  is  always,  however,  a differ- 
ence in  the  way  we  accept  what  comes  by 
exchange  and  what  comes  by  love.  In  the 
former  our  thought  is  fixed  on  what  is  re- 
ceived, in  the  latter  on  him  who  gave. 

Such  are  the  characteristics  of  the  second 
stage  of  altruism.  I proposed  to  study 
that  great  principle  from  three  points  of 
view  which  would  show  the  successive  steps 
by  which,  without  injury  to  the  individual, 
it  goes  on  to  completeness.  At  the  very 
beginning  of  life,  and  ever  after,  we  are 
called  on  to  pay  attention  to  others  and  to 
subject  ourselves  to  restrictions  for  their 
sake.  We  find  ourselves  related  or  con- 
junct beings,  and  on  our  frank  acceptance 
of  these  relations  our  power  and  peace  de- 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


69 


pend.  Without  the  restraints  of  manners 
life  would  be,  as  Hobbes  said,  “solitary, 
poor,  nasty,  brutish,  and  short.”  But  the 
ever-present  altruism  here  is  imperfect  be- 
cause primarily  dictated  by  the  desire  to 
protect  ourselves.  The  separate  self  and 
the  conjunct  self  are  not  necessarily  united 
in  manners.  The  form  of  altruism  may  be 
kept  for  protective  purposes  when  there  is 
nothing  of  it  within. 

The  next  higher  stage,  however,  starts 
from  within,  the  giver  seeking  to  promote 
another’s  welfare  at  the  cost  of  his  own. 
But  there  is  always  uncertainty  in  accom- 
plishing this;  it  extends  at  best  only  to 
brief  portions  of  life,  is  impossible  wherever 
rational  claim  enters,  and  never  escapes  a 
suggestion  of  haughty  disparagement.  The 
trouble  in  both  of  these  stages  is,  after  all, 
the  same.  Alter  and  ego  have  been  con- 
ceived as  distinct,  and  getting  has  been 
separated  from  giving.  But  surely  this  is 
unnecessary.  There  are  mutual  situations 
in  life  where  each  of  two  parties  is  at  once 
giver  and  receiver.  The  single  self  may  be 
entirely  at  one  with  the  conjunct,  the  con- 
junct with  the  single.  Only  so  in  mutual- 
ity can  altruism  become  complete.  To  ex- 


70 


ALTRUISM 


plaining  this  curious  situation  I shall  de- 
vote my  remaining  chapters.  But  before 
doing  so  I wish  to  turn  back  and  make 
atonement  for  a certain  erroneous  light  in 
which  I have  placed  these  earlier  stages. 

When  I was  analyzing  manners  my  read- 
ers must  have  felt  that  those  are  not  the 
manners  with  which  they  are  familiar. 
They  have  never  felt  the  need  of  barriers 
between  friends  or  thought  of  manners  as 
a protective  agency.  Nor  in  gifts  have 
they  come  upon  my  perplexities.  Giving 
and  receiving  have  seemed  to  them  matters 
usual  and  pleasant,  and  no  notion  of  su- 
periority or  inferiority  has  entered  their 
heads. 

No  doubt  this  is  a more  frequent  experi- 
ence than  that  just  described.  Yet  my 
account  is  correct  and  important.  It 
states  the  minimum  of  altruism  which 
necessarily  enters  into  manners,  what  they 
are  when  taken  by  themselves  and  unaf- 
fected by  any  higher  range  of  our  being. 
As  soon  as  we  become  acquainted  with  giv- 
ing, it  reacts  on  this  earlier  stage  and  fills 
it  with  new  meaning.  Egoistic  elements 
are  softened.  Manners  are  used  as  an  op- 
portunity for  tactful  giving.  An  atmos- 


DEFECTS  OE  GIVING 


71 


phere  of  kindness  takes  the  place  of  re- 
straint, the  formal  manners  I have  de- 
scribed being  reserved  for  formal  occasions. 
Fortunately  this  higher  civilization  is  now 
wide-spread.  Yet  we  can  still  detect  what 
I would  call  the  guarded  manners  of  some 
persons  and  set  them  in  contrast  to  the 
generous  manners  of  others.  People  of 
guarded  manners  are  ever  mindful  of  their 
own  dignity,  hold  themselves  somewhat 
aloof,  and  make  much  of  punctilio.  Those 
of  generous  manners  are  ready  to  spend 
themselves  freely  for  the  pleasure  of  those 
about  them  and  seem  able  to  save  any  oc- 
casion from  dulness  with  their  stores  of 
information,  wit,  song,  and  lively  anecdote. 
These  persons  look  after  those  less  accus- 
tomed to  society  and  unobtrusively  help 
them  on.  But  even  their  admirable  work 
is  exceeded  by  those  accustomed  to  mutual- 
ity. These  give  us  no  impression  of  wealthy 
persons  imparting  to  us  their  stores.  Their 
work  is  quieter.  Their  manners  might  be 
called  friendly.  They  set  every  one  at 
ease  and  do  not  so  much  give  as  share, 
appearing  as  much  interested  in  our  af- 
fairs as  we  could  be  in  theirs.  In  their 
presence  we  are  simpler,  cleverer,  and  less 


72 


ALTRUISM 


provincial  than  we  had  believed  ourselves 
to  be. 

In  a similar  way,  under  the  influence  of 
mutuality  gifts  become  transformed.  Con- 
descension disappears.  The  favor  is  on 
both  sides.  A giver  has  enjoyed  some- 
thing so  much  that  he  wants  his  pleasure 
shared.  Will  we  take  part  with  him  ? 
There  is  no  stooping,  no  handing  down  to 
one  below.  The  two  parties  are  on  a level, 
joined  in  a mutual  act.  “Will  you  do  me 
the  favor  to  accept  this?”  is  both  the  lan- 
guage and  the  feeling  of  the  giver. 

Matters  of  every-day  life,  so  familiar  that 
we  seldom  reflect  on  them,  I have  attempted 
in  the  preceding  chapters  to  analyze  with 
something  like  scientific  precision.  By  so 
doing  I have  turned  them  into  almost  un- 
recognizable abstractions.  In  closing,  I 
should  like  to  restore  them  to  their  right- 
ful color,  and  I have  searched  for  a passage 
which  might  present  the  approach  of  man 
to  man  just  as  we  daily  see  it,  with  an  in- 
timate blending  of  all  three  varieties  of 
altruism — pure  manners,  giving,  and  mu- 
tuality. In  a passage  from  the  Eighth 
Discourse  of  Cardinal  Newman’s  Idea  of 
a University  I find  what  I want,  expressed 


DEFECTS  OF  GIVING 


73 


in  language  of  extraordinary  refinement 
and  accuracy.  It  will  be  noticed  what 
prominence  lie  gives  to  the  negative  func- 
tion of  manners,  how  in  depicting  generos- 
ity he  sees  the  danger  of  condescension, 
and  how  he  finds  the  crowning  excellence  of 
manners  in  that  self-forgetting  mutuality 
which  sets  all  at  their  ease. 

“The  true  gentleman  carefully  avoids 
whatever  may  cause  a jar  or  a jolt  in  the 
minds  of  those  with  whom  he  is  cast:  all 
clashing  of  opinion,  or  collision  of  feeling, 
all  restraint  or  suspicion  or  gloom  or  re- 
sentment; his  great  concern  being  to  make 
every  one  at  their  ease  and  at  home.  He 
has  his  eyes  on  all  his  company:  he  is 
tender  toward  the  bashful,  gentle  toward 
the  distant,  and  merciful  toward  the  ab- 
surd. He  can  recollect  to  whom  he  is 
speaking.  He  guards  against  unseason- 
able allusions  or  topics  which  may  irritate. 
He  is  seldom  prominent  in  conversation 
and  never  wearisome.  He  makes  fight  of 
favors  while  he  does  them  and  seems  to  be 
receiving  when  he  is  conferring.  He  never 
speaks  of  himself  except  when  compelled, 
never  defends  himself  by  a mere  retort; 
he  has  no  ears  for  slander  or  gossip,  is 


74  ALTRUISM 

scrupulous  in  imputing  motives  to  those 
who  interfere  with  him,  and  interprets 
everything  for  the  best.  He  is  never  mean 
or  little  in  his  disputes,  never  takes  unfair 
advantage,  never  mistakes  personalities  or 
sharp  sayings  for  arguments,  or  insinuates 
evil  which  he  dare  not  say  out.  From  a 
long-sighted  prudence  he  observes  the 
maxim  of  the  ancient  sage,  that  we  should 
ever  conduct  ourselves  toward  our  enemy 
as  if  he  were  one  day  to  be  our  friend.  He 
has  too  much  sense  to  be  affronted  at  in- 
sults, he  is  too  well  employed  to  remember 
injuries,  and  too  indolent  to  bear  malice. 
He  is  patient,  forbearing,  and  resigned  on 
philosophical  principles:  he  submits  to  pain 
because  it  is  inevitable,  to  bereavement  be- 
cause it  is  irreparable,  and  to  death  because 
it  is  destiny.  If  he  engage  in  controversy 
of  any  kind,  his  disciplined  intellect  pre- 
serves him  from  the  blundering  discourtesy 
of  better  perhaps,  but  less  educated,  minds 
who,  like  blunt  weapons,  tear  and  hack  in- 
stead of  cutting  clean,  who  mistake  the 
point  in  argument,  waste  their  strength  on 
trifles,  misconceive  the  adversary,  and  leave 
the  question  more  involved  than  they 
found  it.” 


CHAPTER  V 
MUTUALITY 

We;  have  now  clearly  before  us  the  two 
imperfect  varieties  of  altruism.  While  both 
recognize  and  honor  man’s  relation  to 
man,  from  neither  is  regard  for  the  sepa- 
rate self  excluded.  Each  may  as  well  be 
prompted  by  an  egoistic  aim  as  by  an  al- 
truistic. For  though  in  manners  we  mi- 
nutely consider  how  we  may  save  another 
from  annoyance  it  is  always  with  the  un- 
derstanding that  we  are  thus  ourselves 
protected.  Nor  does  giving  escape  a similar 
self-regard.  We  cannot  make  a gift  with- 
out implying  that  the  receiver  has  no  right 
to  it,  without  bringing  him  into  depen- 
dence, therefore,  on  our  will  as  his  superior. 
Giving,  too,  can  only  intermittently  take 
the  place  of  attention  to  our  own  good.  It 
would  exhaust  itself  otherwise.  Jesus  is 
reported  to  have  spent  thirty  years  in  ac- 
quisition, less  than  three  in  benefaction. 
Indeed,  unless  we  heartily  valued  our  own 
possessions,  pleasures,  and  growth  we  could 

75 


76 


ALTRUISM 


never  count  them  fit  to  constitute  gifts. 
It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  to  the  natural 
childlike  mind  manners  are  unwelcome 
and  that  to  the  disciplined  reflective  mind 
gifts  are  obnoxious.  It  is  true  that  these 
disagreeable  features  are  softened  as  higher 
altruistic  stages  throw  back  an  influence 
over  the  lower;  the  mind  disposed  to  give, 
for  example,  transforming  guarded  manners 
into  generous,  or  even  if  trained  in  mutual- 
ity, making  them  friendly  and  cordial.  In 
a similar  manner,  where  the  conjunct  self 
has  taken  the  place  of  the  separate  the 
proud  giver  is  superseded  by  the  delicate 
giver.  But  these  facts  only  make  plain 
the  incompleteness  of  manners  and  giving 
when  taken  by  themselves,  and  demon- 
strate that  altruism  to  be  really  known 
must  be  studied  in  that  highest  stage  to 
which  I have  given  the  name  of  mutuality. 
To  this  intricate  and  important  study  I 
now  turn. 

Giving  fails  to  reach  the  altruism  it  seeks 
because  its  generosity  is  confined  to  one  of 
the  two  parties  engaged,  while  to  the  other 
is  assigned  the  inferior  position  of  egoistic 
receiver.  But  is  this  necessary?  May  we 
not  conceive  of  a gift  without  this  blemish, 


MUTUALITY 


77 


a giving  in  which  each  side  gives  to  the 
other,  thus  joining  giving  and  getting,  and 
abolishing  all  inferiority?  To  show  how 
this  may  be  I am  obliged  to  enter  into  more 
detail  than  in  explaining  simpler  moral  situ- 
ations. I will,  accordingly,  offer  a gen- 
eral definition  of  mutuality  and  then  take 
up  the  successively  completer  forms  in 
which  it  is  realized. 

By  mutuality,  then,  I mean  the  recogni- 
tion of  another  and  myself  as  inseparable 
elements  of  one  another,  each  being  essen- 
tial to  the  welfare  of  each.  This  duality 
of  giving  has  always  been  recognized  as  en- 
nobling. Even  Jesus  did  not  seek  simply 
to  give,  but  to  induce  in  those  to  whom  he 
gave  a similar  disposition.  Rightly  is  it 
counted  higher  than  simple  giving,  includ- 
ing, as  it  does,  all  which  that  contains  and 
more. 

Such  mutuality  is  most  familiar  to  us 
in  certain  cases  which  for  convenience  I 
group  together  under  the  name  of  partner- 
ship. In  a partnership  a specific  field  is 
marked  out  within  which  persons  agree  to 
consider  certain  of  their  interests  common. 
When  Brown  and  I form  a firm  for  the  sale 
of  shoes  it  is  understood  that  thenceforth 


78 


ALTRUISM 


lie  and  I have  no  separate  interest  so  far 
as  shoes  are  concerned.  The  stock  in  the 
store  does  not  belong  to  him  or  to  me;  and 
if  some  one  seeing  money  in  the  drawer 
should  ask  whose  it  was,  I should  have  to 
answer,  “It  is  not  mine,”  and  Brown 
would  similarly  disown  it.  It  would  be 
ours.  All  his  would  be  mine  and  mine  his. 
Usual  thought  and  speech  would  require 
considerable  readjustment  to  fit  a con- 
dition so  new.  “I”  and  “he”  would  pass 
largely  out  of  use  as  no  longer  of  practical 
significance,  “we”  taking  the  place  of 
these  separate  symbols.  “Together”  would 
acquire  a more  intimate  and  compulsive 
meaning.  Accordingly,  if  on  some  bright 
morning  I were  inclined  to  go  shooting  in- 
stead of  appearing  at  the  office  at  my  usu- 
al hour,  I should  know  I had  no  right  to 
the  sport  without  Brown’s  concurrence, 
my  time  being  no  longer  mine.  Mutuality 
would  everywhere  supersede  private  con- 
trol. All  this  is  familiar  enough.  Nobody 
finds  it  hard  to  comprehend.  But  when  the 
moralist  urges  that  higher  life  is  possible 
only  as  the  separate  self  becomes  merged 
in  a conjunct,  it  sounds  mysterious  and 
seems  little  likely  to  occur. 


MUTUALITY 


79 


But  the  partnership  principle  is  wider 
than  the  business  firm.  In  some  degree  it 
enters  into  every  bargain.  Buyer  and 
seller  establish  a kind  of  mutuality.  Sup- 
pose a customer  on  coming  to  my  store  and 
putting  down  his  five  dollars  for  a pair  of 
shoes  should  suddenly  bethink  himself  and 
say:  “I  wonder  if  you  are  not  cheating 
me.  That  pair  of  shoes  cost  you  not  more 
than  four  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents. 
By  your  price  you  are  taking  twenty-five 
cents  more  from  my  pocket  than  you  are 
delivering  to  me.”  Might  I not  answer: 
“It  seems  to  me  it  is  you  who  are  cheating 
me.  You  need  those  shoes  more  than  you 
need  five  dollars.  You  would  give  five 
dollars  and  a quarter  rather  than  go  with- 
out them.  Are  you  not,  then,  returning  to 
my  pocket  twenty-five  cents  less  than  you 
are  receiving?”  In  reality  neither  of  us 
has  cheated.  We  have  merely  made  a 
legitimate  profit  from  one  another.  Such 
mutual  profit  is  involved  in  all  good  bar- 
gaining. It  yields  a double  gain.  I gain 
from  my  customer  and  he  from  me,  and 
both  are  left  in  better  condition  than  be- 
fore. If  he  had  not  cared  more  for  the 
shoes  than  for  five  dollars  he  would  not 


80 


ALTRUISM 


have  come  to  my  store.  If  I had  not 
counted  five  dollars  of  greater  worth  to 
me  than  the  shoes  I should  not  have 
parted  with  them.  A curious  situation 
this,  where  two  persons  draw  advantage 
from  one  another ! But  every  sound  com- 
mercial transaction  proceeds  on  this  as- 
sumption. In  all  honest  trade  there  is  a 
gainful  partnership. 

In  my  last  chapter,  after  discussing  gifts, 
charity,  and  the  generous  soul,  I promised 
to  turn  to  a moral  situation  higher  still, 
one  of  purer  altruism.  Are  we  then  keep- 
ing to  the  order  proposed?  Can  we  sup- 
pose that  a commercial  transaction  is  of 
a higher  order  than  an  act  of  charity?  I 
believe  we  can.  As  we  look  over  the  his- 
tory of  civilization  we  certainly  find  gifts 
understood  long  before  trade.  The  savage 
is  a not  ungenerous  person.  When  he 
takes  a fancy  to  any  one  he  gives  pretty 
freely,  not,  of  course,  through  any  claim 
or  duty  but  merely  in  deference  to  his 
native  feeling.  What  he  cannot  conceive 
is  the  double  gift,  a transaction  in  which 
each  is  a gainer.  He  is  ready  enough  to 
strip  himself  of  advantage  in  behalf  of  one 
whom  he  likes  and  is  pleased  when  he,  too, 


MUTUALITY 


81 


receives  a gift;  but  that  one  and  the  same 
act  can  yield  a mutual  gain  he  apprehends 
slowly  and  rudely.  Yet  on  just  this  con- 
dition of  mutuality  all  honest  trade  is 
based.  It  is  true  I must  add  the  adjective 
“honest.”  One  can  deceive  under  the 
forms  of  trade  as  readily  as  under  any 
other  forms.  They  shelter  deception  well. 
In  dealing  with  a customer  I may  have 
some  special  information  about  the  quality 
of  an  article  which  he  does  not  possess. 
He  is  therefore  at  a disadvantage.  No  one 
would  maintain  that  all  the  operations  of 
commerce  are  of  a higher  moral  order  than 
charity;  but  it  may  be  said  that  every 
honest  mercantile  transaction  shows  altru- 
ism of  a more  thoroughgoing  kind  than  a 
gift  does. 

This  may  be  made  plainer  by  a con- 
trasted vice.  Living  long  among  college 
students  and  observing  their  natural  plea- 
sure in  all  sorts  of  moral  experimentation,  I 
have  come  to  believe  gambling  the  vice 
most  likely  to  wreck  character.  All  forms 
of  vice  are  bad  enough.  It  is  shocking  to 
see  a young  man  drunk.  But  drunkenness 
grows  steadily  rarer,  and,  after  all,  a drinker 
remains  pretty  much  himself  when  the  fit 


82 


ALTRUISM 


is  off.  I have  had  friends  of  this  sort  who 
when  not  in  liquor  showed  the  same  in- 
terest in  worthy  things  as  other  men.  But 
when  I see  the  gambling  habit  getting  hold 
of  a young  man  I despair  of  him.  For 
several  reasons  it  is  unlikely  he  will  be 
good  for  much  thereafter.  Seldom  does  a 
vice  or  virtue  have  only  a single  root.  On 
the  one  hand  the  gambler  gives  up  rational 
modes  of  guidance,  ceases  to  calculate 
clearly,  lives  on  the  unexpected,  and  looks 
for  some  deliverance  to  drop  from  the 
sky.  A hectic  anxiety  takes  possession  of 
him  and  disorganizes  his  life.  But  there 
are  results  worse  still.  Gambling,  in  con- 
trast with  honest  trade,  admits  only  a 
single  gain.  I can  gain  nothing  for  my- 
self except  by  damaging  another.  I must 
directly  seek  his  harm.  The  tradesman 
benefits  himself  through  benefiting  his  cus- 
tomer. His  business  is  grounded  on  the 
double  gain.  He  draws  profit,  it  is  true, 
from  another  man’s  pocket,  but  he  does 
not,  like  the  gambler,  stop  there.  He  puts 
back  into  that  pocket  a little  more  than 
the  equivalent  of  what  he  took  out.  The 
gambler  breaks  up  this  mutuality  and  lives 
as  a bandit  by  attack.  Thus  dehumanized 


MUTUALITY 


83 


and  shut  up  to  his  separate  self  he  rots. 
When  trade  allows  the  double  gain  to  drop 
out  of  sight,  it  too  becomes  gambling  and 
shows  the  same  predatory  tendencies.  Hon- 
est trade  is  a different  matter.  Its  mutual 
profit  carries  altruism  through  a community 
more  wholesomely  than  can  any  arbitrary 
will. 

But  the  partnership  principle  runs  fur- 
ther still.  It  is  the  cement  which  binds 
together  a multitude  of  groups.  A ship’s 
crew,  a regiment  of  an  army,  stands  in  just 
this  mutual  relationship.  They  represent 
the  will  of  no  one  of  their  members,  yet  no 
one  must  detach  his  will  from  the  whole. 
A sailor  cannot  withdraw  to-day  because  he 
feels  like  reading,  a soldier  because  the 
coming  attack  is  likely  to  cost  his  life.  Un- 
der anarchic  influence  something  like  this 
was  lately  allowed  the  Russian  soldier,  and 
the  army  ceased  to  be.  It  can  exist  only 
as  a conjunct  affair.  Our  States  were  once 
supposed  to  have  established  a Union;  but 
when  South  Carolina  set  up  a separate  will, 
regardless  of  the  rest,  chaos  came.  How 
transformed  the  youngster  is  when  he  goes 
out  with  the  baseball  team ! He  does  not 
mind  if  he  breaks  his  finger,  covers  himself 


84 


ALTRUISM 


with  dirt,  or  becomes  utterly  exhausted. 
What  does  it  matter  if  only  the  team  wins  ? 
There  is  no  longer  any  me.  He  thinks  in 
conjunct  terms.  He  will  not  shirk,  take 
himself  away  and  leave  the  others  to  their 
harm. 

How  far  can  such  a notion  of  partnership 
be  carried?  Evidently  to  all  clubs  whose 
members  recognize  themselves  as  also  mem- 
bers one  of  another,  each  forming  no  de- 
cisions of  his  own.  Would  it  apply  to 
churches  and  learned  societies?  Not  al- 
together, I think.  We  have  hitherto  meant 
by  partnership  a terminable  union  of  speci- 
fied persons  for  a definite  time  and  in 
reference  to  a definite  end.  In  scientific 
societies,  and  especially  in  churches,  we  do 
not  limit  numbers  and  usually  expect  the 
union  to  be  a permanent  one.  This  in- 
definiteness as  regards  time  and  persons  is 
no  accident.  It  rightly  belongs  to  unions 
like  these,  which  aim  at  developing  per- 
sonality. A baseball  team,  a ship’s  crew, 
gather  a specially  trained  company  for  a 
particular  end.  When  this  end  is  attained 
the  union  naturally  ceases.  Science  and 
righteousness  are  never  attained,  but  ap- 
peal without  limitation.  Perhaps,  then, 


MUTUALITY 


85 


such  internal  and  personal  associations 
should  not  be  classed  as  partnerships  at 
all,  but  that  notion  should  be  reserved  for 
unions  of  a more  external  and  limited  sort. 

If  I am  right  in  this,  it  may  help  to 
explain  the  hesitation  many  readers  must 
have  felt  over  my  eulogy  of  business  meth- 
ods as  examples  of  altruism.  Certainly  we 
all  know  that  commerce  has  a barbarous 
side.  Nowhere  else  among  civilized  human 
beings  does  selfishness  become  so  ruthless. 
The  possibility  of  this  comes  through  two 
limitations  which  partnership  sets  on  mu- 
tuality. When  Brown  and  I established 
our  firm  we  limited  the  persons  involved  to 
himself  and  me,  and  even  we  were  to  have 
relations  only  so  far  as  concerned  the  sale 
of  shoes.  Within  these  two  limits  mutual- 
ity was  complete,  but  it  did  not  extend 
beyond.  Supported  thus  by  one  another, 
we  two  were  able  to  contend  with  the  rest 
of  the  world  as  neither  could  alone.  To- 
gether we  could  push  our  interests  with 
little  regard  to  the  general  interests  of  the 
town.  If  other  trades  suffered,  we  need 
not  care  so  long  as  the  shoe  business  flour- 
ished, and  still  less  need  we  care  if  our 
prosperity  crowded  out  of  existence  the 


86 


ALTRUISM 


shoe  store  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 
Such  clear  limitation  of  an  altruistic  horizon 
is  always  dangerous.  In  many  restricted 
unions  the  danger  is  noticeable.  A family 
warmly  considerate  of  its  own  members 
often  shows  small  sympathy  for  persons 
beyond  its  bounds.  A ball  club,  a secret 
society  will  practise  trickeries  on  other 
leagues  which  their  members  as  individuals 
would  scorn.  In  trade,  too,  the  matter  is 
made  worse  by  a second  limitation.  My 
partner  and  I understand  that  our  mutual- 
ity operates  only  with  reference  to  the  sale 
of  shoes.  We  do  not  merge  our  lives.  We 
keep  a sharp  line  drawn  between  them  and 
our  business.  Possibly  enough  I may  have 
little  respect  for  Brown.  As  a person  I 
may  think  so  meanly  of  him  that  when  he 
suggests  being  asked  to  my  house  and 
meeting  my  wife  and  children  I find  an 
excuse  for  not  inviting  him.  He  is  excel- 
lent so  far  as  selling  shoes  is  concerned,  but 
personal  relations  are  quite  another  thing. 
Here  again  the  narrowing  of  the  field  with- 
in which  mutuality  operates  lessens  its  dig- 
nity and  intensifies  its  aggressive  power. 

No  wonder,  then,  we  are  apt  to  picture 
trade  as  a conscienceless  struggle  of  com- 


MUTUALITY 


87 


petitors  for  private  gain.  But  the  picture 
is  disproportionate  and  erroneous.  Sav- 
agery is  possible  here,  but  so  is  much  else. 
Commerce  has  a deep  ethical  ground  and 
wide  ethical  opportunities,  co-operation  be- 
ing as  essential  to  it  as  competition.  It 
exists  only  through  service  to  the  commu- 
nity. The  mutual  relations  of  partnership 
are  constantly  being  extended,  single  trades 
organizing  to  promote  their  common  in- 
terests, and  chambers  of  commerce  over- 
seeing the  business  of  a whole  city.  Those 
who  engage  in  trade  are  no  less  human 
beings  than  their  fellows  and  are  continu- 
ally discovering  that  honorable  and  high- 
minded  methods  of  conducting  business  are 
in  the  long  run  profitable.  The  very  com- 
petitions that  arise  are  useful  promoters  of 
efficiency,  and  the  general  government 
stands  ready  in  the  background  to  fix 
limits  beyond  which  greed  shall  not  go. 
There  are,  in  short,  many  circumstances  in 
the  life  of  trade  which  to  a good  degree 
neutralize  the  limitations  which  I have 
pointed  out  in  its  application  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  mutuality. 

That  principle,  too,  runs  far  beyond  the 
field  of  partnership.  Partnership  brings 


88 


ALTRUISM 


persons  into  mutual  relations  only  with 
reference  to  certain  external  ends.  Brown 
and  I joined  only  those  fragments  of  our 
lives  which  were  connected  with  the  sale 
of  shoes.  We  might  join  extensive  portions, 
might  merge  not  merely  our  occupations 
but  all  our  personal  interests.  In  him  I 
might  discover  what  contributes  to  my 
best  growth  and  he  find  no  less  in  me.  In 
this  way  we  should  reach  a new  species  of 
existence  to  which  the  definition  of  mu- 
tuality previously  given  would  apply  in  a 
higher  sense.  I should  here  recognize  an- 
other and  myself  as  more  completely  con- 
stituent members  of  one  another,  each  be- 
ing essential  to  the  welfare  of  each.  Here 
no  new  elements  enter  which  were  not  in- 
cluded in  partnership.  There  as  here  identi- 
fication of  interests  appears,  the  abolition 
of  mine  and  thine,  the  double  gain;  only 
here  there  is  no  restriction  of  the  field. 
The  lives  are  identified  throughout  their 
full  depth  and  extent.  They  do  not  merely 
collaborate  for  a specific  purpose. 

Such  is  the  attitude  of  love,  so  familiar, 
so  mysterious,  so  potent  in  developing 
whatever  is  best  in  us.  In  it  both  egoism 
and  altruism  have  ample  room.  If  I loved 


MUTUALITY 


89 


Brown,  I should  not  hesitate  to  own  that  I 
sought  him  for  my  own  advantage,  though 
I should  also  bid  him  to  take  of  me  all 
he  wanted — the  more,  the  better.  And  I 
should  expect  the  same  double  response 
from  him.  Edmund  Spenser  has  stated  the 
matter  with  great  precision  in  his  “Hymn 
in  Honor  of  Beauty”: 

“For  love  is  a celestial  harmony 
Of  likely  hearts  composed  of  stars’  consent. 
Which  join  together  in  sweet  sympathy 
To  work  each  other’s  joy  and  true  content, 

Which  they  have  harboured  since  their  first  de- 
scent 

Out  of  their  heavenly  bowers,  where  they  did  see 
And  know  each  other  here  beloved  to  be.” 

Spenser  intends  by  “harmony”  what  I 
have  meant  by  mutuality,  something  where 
several  different  parts  belong  together  and 
reach  their  full  significance  in  union.  If  the 
two  hearts  are  similar  and  each  merely  re- 
peats what  the  other  contains,  there  is  no 
mutual  profit.  They  must  fit  one  another, 
and  in  this  fitting  there  is  always  some- 
thing of  the  unknown.  They  cannot  of 
themselves  entirely  create  the  union.  The 
“stars’  consent”  must  be  added.  Heaven 


90 


ALTRUISM 


must  shine  upon  them.  Spenser  even  sug- 
gests that  their  adaptation  to  one  another 
is  not  begun  in  this  world,  but  is  merely 
recognized  here  as  having  been  ever  of  old. 
Once  known  it  brings  them  full  content. 

This,  then,  is  the  topic  to  which  we  now 
turn.  It  is  that  which  the  ethical  teachers 
of  every  age  have  counted  fundamental. 
With  Jesus  it  supersedes  all  else.  Writers 
as  unlike  as  the  Catholic  statesman  Au- 
gustine, the  Jew  Spinoza,  the  Puritan  Jona- 
than Edwards  see  in  love  the  fulfilment  of 
righteousness.  “Love  God  and  do  as  you 
please,”  says  Augustine.  It  is  something 
we  all  experience  and  few  understand.  In 
it  there  are  paradoxes  not  found  elsewhere. 
Delicate  analysis  will  be  needed  to  bring 
out  all  that  it  involves,  to  show,  too,  how 
even  here  limitations  creep  in.  To  this 
puzzling  and  attractive  work  I devote  the 
next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI 
LOVE 

In  the  Symposium  of  Plato  Socrates  is 
made  to  say  that  he  can  profess  knowledge 
of  only  a single  subject,  love,  but  that 
through  acquaintance  with  this  he  has  a 
key  to  unlock  all  wisdom.  And  certainly 
if  Socrates  understood  love  he  deserves  to 
be  reckoned  among  the  wise.  Few  have 
looked  into  it  soberly.  To  those  who  are 
not  experiencing  it,  it  is  a jest;  to  those 
who  are,  a blind  passion.  Novelists  exploit 
it  for  cash;  poets,  on  the  whole  its  most 
serious  students,  too  often  for  graceful 
fancies.  Saint  Paul’s  compact  sentences 
give  more  of  its  substance  than  can  be  had 
in  the  same  compass  elsewhere.  In  under- 
taking an  analysis  of  it  I believe  I can  best 
fix  attention  on  its  more  important  ethical 
features  if  I ask  a series  of  simple  questions 
about  it  and  then  develop  their  compli- 
cated answers. 

(1)  How  does  love  differ  from  liking? 
Quantitatively.  The  degree  of  emotion  ex- 

91 


92 


ALTRUISM 


pressed  by  love  is  out  of  all  proportion  to 
that  of  liking.  I love  my  friends  and  like 
their  surroundings;  I like  this  gift  and 
love  the  giver.  An  exchange  of  terms  in 
either  of  these  sentences  would  make  moral 
nonsense.  Liking  touches  only  the  sur- 
face; I like  strawberries.  Loving  goes  all 
through;  I love  my  old  servant.  Of  course, 
then,  loving  includes  liking,  though  liking 
may  or  may  not  be  accompanied  by  loving; 
and  equally,  of  course,  loose  talkers,  who 
do  not  know  what  they  mean,  will  try  to 
be  impressive  by  using  the  weightier  word. 
I love  automobiling,  I love  the  opera,  I love 
ice-cream;  these  are  all  forms  of  silly  exag- 
geration which  no  one  will  seriously  defend. 

But  there  is  a reason  for  this  quantita- 
tive difference.  An  additional  factor  enters 
into  love  and  greatly  increases  its  depth. 
Love  always  implies  the  possibility  of  the 
loved  one’s  knowledge  and  his  capacity  for 
response.  It  is  applicable  therefore  pri- 
marily to  persons  and  the  higher  animals, 
and  only  in  a metaphoric  way  suits  things. 
No  doubt  the  response  often  fails,  but  it 
is  always  desired  and  sought.  Love  seeks 
to  establish  a personal  tie.  No  one  ever 
loved  without  wishing  to  be  loved. 


LOVE 


93 


Furthermore,  between  love  and  liking 
there  is  a sharp  contrast  of  mental  attitude. 
In  liking,  my  thoughts  are  on  myself;  in 
loving,  on  another.  I like  whatever  brings 
me  pleasure  or  profit.  But  Browning 
rightly  asks:  “How  can  one  love  but  what 
he  yearns  to  help  ?”  That  is,  what  we  love 
always  seems  to  us  to  have  such  worth  as 
calls  on  us  for  protection  and  the  offering 
up  of  ourselves.  To  the  lover  it  appears 
august,  superior,  and  supplemental  to  any- 
thing possessed  by  himself.  It  fills  him 
with  awe  and  a spirit  of  sacrifice.  Spenser 
addresses  his  lady  as  “My  dear  dread.” 
There  is  nothing  of  this  in  liking.  Our 
thoughts  are  there  fixed  on  ourselves, 
heedless  of  the  condition  of  whatever  fur- 
nishes us  profit.  Oxen  we  like,  because 
they  supply  our  tables  and  till  our  fields. 
What  matter  if  in  doing  so  they  perish? 
We  tend  the  dog  we  love  and  do  not  let 
him  be  harmed  in  our  service.  In  short, 
loving  is  our  forthgoing  toward  one  pos- 
sessing a worth  preferred  above  our  own; 
liking,  our  feeling  toward  anything  from 
which  we  derive  benefit,  even  though  in- 
ferior in  general  worth  to  ourselves. 

On  account  of  this  difference  love  can- 


94 


ALTRUISM 


not  be  confined  to  persons.  Seeing  a little 
girl  tending  her  rose-bush  and  asking  her 
if  she  likes  it,  I shall  probably  receive  the 
indignant  reply:  “No,  I love  it.”  She 
means:  “I  think  as  much  about  giving  to 
it  as  of  getting  from  it.”  It  would  be  im- 
proper to  ask  a painter,  a scholar,  if  he  likes 
his  work.  If  he  follows  it  for  gain  he  is 
untrue  to  it;  he  can  really  succeed  only 
when  he  loves  it,  i.  e.,  gives  himself  heartily 
to  it.  In  many  cases,  therefore,  where 
profit  is  abundant,  it  would  be  a kind  of 
impiety  to  speak  of  liking.  I like  my 
mother,  I like  God.  Certainly ! None 
gives  ampler  ground  for  liking.  But  for 
that  very  reason  my  mind  should  be  set 
on  the  appropriate  outgo  in  return.  How- 
ever much  the  patriot  may  like  his  coun- 
try, i.  e.,  recognize  the  opportunities  it  af- 
fords for  life,  he  loves  it  more.  Perhaps 
in  all  these  cases  where  impersonal  beings 
are  loved  we  inwardly  attribute  personal- 
ity to  them  and  feel  that  we  receive  from 
them  as  much  love  as  we  give. 

For  that  is  an  essential  in  love:  it  con- 
templates mutuality.  The  loved  one  looks 
up  to  the  lover  as  truly  as  the  lover  does 
to  the  loved.  Each  counts  himself  inferior 
and  only  through  the  other  capable  of  pos- 


LOVE 


95 


sessing  worth.  “She  is  my  essence  and  I 
leave  to  be,  if  I be  not  through  her  fair 
influence,”  says  Shakespeare’s  Valentine; 
and  had  love  reached  its  completion,  Sylvia 
would  have  expressed  no  less.  This  double 
action  is  characteristic  of  love,  while  liking 
has  only  a single  end.  If  we  will  speak  ac- 
curately, then,  we  shall  acknowledge  that 
the  real  object  loved  is  neither  member  of 
the  pair  but  just  this  mutuality,  the  “to- 
getherness,” which  blots  out  regard  for  any 
separate  self  and  fills  each  with  passion  for 
the  conjunct.  “To  the  desire  and  pursuit 
of  the  whole  the  name  of  love  is  given,” 
says  Plato  in  the  Symposium.  In  his 
“Clasping  of  Hands”  George  Herbert 
charmingly  develops  the  puzzling  reciproc- 
ity of  love  when  he  tries  to  comprehend 
his  relation  to  God: 

“Lord,  thou  art  mine,  and  I am  thine 
If  mine  I am;  and  thine  much  more 
Than  I or  ought  or  can  be  mine. 

Yet  to  be  thine  doth  me  restore. 

So  that  again  I now  am  mine, 

And  with  advantage  mine  the  more, 

Since  this  being  mine  brings  with  it  thine. 
And  thou  with  me  dost  thee  restore. 

If  I without  thee  would  be  mine, 

I neither  should  be  mine  nor  thine. 


96 


ALTRUISM 


Lord,  I am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine; 

So  mine  thou  art  that  something  more 
I may  presume  thee  mine  than  thine. 

For  thou  didst  suffer  to  restore 
Not  thee,  but  me,  and  to  be  mine. 

And  with  advantage  mine  the  more; 

Since  thou  in  death  wast  none  of  thine. 

Yet  then  as  mine  didst  me  restore. 

Oh  be  mine  still ! Still  make  me  thine  ! 

Or  rather  make  no  thine  and  mine  !” 

Of  course  such  a poem  can  have  only 
two  stanzas,  and  these  must  closely  parallel 
each  other  in  every  part.  The  resulting 
definition  of  love,  making  it  the  completed 
form  of  mutuality,  would  run  as  follows: 
love  is  the  joint  service  of  a common  life. 

(2)  Is  the  lover,  then,  an  unselfish  person 
and  does  altruism,  here  reaching  its  high- 
est pitch,  exclude  all  egoistic  regard?  On 
the  contrary,  it  includes  and  magnifies  it. 
I have  said  that  love  always  involves  lik- 
ing, the  knowledge  that  an  object  has 
brought  me  gain  and  is  capable  of  bringing 
more.  In  his  loved  one  the  lover  knows  a 
source  of  incomparable  joy.  Were  his  lady 
once  his,  it  would  matter  little  what  else 
might  happen.  Never  before  has  he  con- 
ceived a good  so  great,  and  he  knows  that 


LOVE 


97 


hardships  shared  with  her  would  be  better 
than  the  most  favorable  fortune  alone.  He 
is  therefore  an  eager  seeker.  Such  a pas- 
sion to  possess  is  seen  in  no  one  else.  Yet 
the  opposite  may  be  said  with  equal  truth. 
He  has  lost  all  selfishness.  No  one  is  so 
generous  as  he,  so  ready  for  self-sacrifice. 
To  please  and  benefit  the  loved  one  is  all 
his  care.  Let  what  he  gives  have  cost  him 
little,  and  he  is  dissatisfied.  He  longs  to 
suffer  for  her  sake.  These  are  not  marks  of 
self-seeking.  But  they  do  indicate  that 
the  lover  has  reached  a new  conception  of 
self,  for  which  he  is  even  more  ardent  than 
ever  he  was  for  the  old.  That  old  separate 
self  he  now  despises,  and  knows  that  only 
as  he  loses  it  in  the  loved  one  will  he  have 
any  worth.  Until  he  has  thoroughly  cut 
himself  off  from  his  own  detached  interests 
he  will  be  unworthy  of  her.  A scrap  of 
Persian  verse,  translated  by  Bronson  Al- 
cott,  states  the  matter  well:  “One  knocked 
at  the  beloved’s  door,  and  a voice  asked 
from  within,  ‘Who  is  there?’  And  he  an- 
swered, ‘It  is  I.’  Then  the  voice  said, 
‘This  room  will  not  hold  me  and  thee’; 
and  the  door  was  not  opened.  Then  went 
the  lover  into  the  desert,  and  fasted  and 


98 


ALTRUISM 


prayed  in  solitude.  And  after  a year  lie 
returned  and  knocked  again  at  the  door. 
And  again  the  voice  asked,  ‘ Who  is  there  ? ’ 
And  he  said,  ‘It  is  thyself.’  And  the 
door  was  opened  to  him.”  In  the  mu- 
tuality of  love  egoism  and  altruism  are 
reconciled.  Each  of  the  lovers  acquires  a 
new  apprehension  of  self,  which  conjunct 
being  bears  in  the  mind  of  each  the  name 
of  the  beloved. 

(3)  Is  the  lover  in  his  own  estimate  rich 
or  poor?  Incredibly  rich  in  what  he  has 
received,  but  in  comparison  with  his  lady 
how  poor ! She  is  immeasurably  his  su- 
perior. How  she  stooped  so  low  is  his 
daily  wonder.  But  his  own  inferiority  does 
not  disturb  him.  “Love  envieth  not.  Is 
not  easily  puffed  up.”  On  the  contrary,  he 
rejoices  in  emptying  himself  and  seeing 
how  all  that  is  worth  while  in  him  proceeds 
from  her.  Yet  the  lover  is  a paradoxical 
fellow,  full  of  contradictions  and  scorning 
consistency.  He  prizes  himself  as  he  never 
did  before  and  daily  takes  on  a new  im- 
portance. Never  till  he  loved  was  he  so 
watchful  of  his  looks,  speech,  clothes, 
manners.  What  he  brings  to  her  must  be 
of  the  finest,  and  he  is  pleased  to  discover 


LOVE 


99 


in  himself  excellences  hitherto  unsuspected 
which  she  may  well  accept.  Tennyson  well 
paints  the  aspiring  lover  in  “Maud”: 

“So  dark  a mind  within  me  dwells, 

And  I make  myself  such  evil  cheer 
That  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much  to  fear. 
But  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else. 

Then  I should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 

Shall  I not  care  for  all  that  I think. 

Yea,  even  for  wretched  meat  and  drink. 

If  I be  dear,  if  I be  dear,  to  some  one  else?” 

(4)  When  once  established,  is  love  per- 
manent ? Certainly  not.  Being  a per- 
sonal affair  it  has  no  routine  fixity,  but 
must  continually  be  created  afresh.  Effort 
is  in  it,  intention,  readiness  to  put  aside 
temporary  fancies  and  to  practise  a loyal 
patience.  It  is  true  that  in  the  wise  these 
practices  themselves  become  habitual  and 
love  therefore  a matter  of  happy  course. 
No  action  is  excellent  which  ceases  when 
not  consciously  pressed.  From  the  quiet 
of  assured  love  old  lovers  look  back  on  the 
anxious  fervors  of  early  days  and  acknowl- 
edge them  meagre  and  immature.  Yet 
still  within  call  they  keep  the  resolute  will 


100 


ALTRUISM 


and  guard  against  decay.  For  just  as  my 
readers  find  it  difficult  to  hold  the  thought 
of  the  conjunct  self  steadily  in  mind  and 
are  obliged  to  resist  its  tendency  to  disin- 
tegrate into  separate  selves,  so  do  lovers 
also.  By  degrees  the  sense  of  mutuality 
may  decline,  independent  interests  arise, 
and  then  one  of  the  lower  altruistic  forms 
may  take  the  place  of  this  its  highest.  A 
pair  may  feel  themselves  drawing  apart 
and,  finding  less  and  less  in  common,  may 
gradually  content  themselves  with  a kind  of 
partnership  in  place  of  love.  Or  one,  dis- 
turbed over  the  breach  of  affection,  may 
seek  to  repair  it  by  acts  of  generosity.  He 
may  be  liberal  in  granting  his  company, 
his  friendly  cheer,  to  the  slightly  distant 
loved  one.  But  that,  too,  is  a slipping 
down.  The  two  are  then  no  longer  in 
equality.  Perfect  love  knows  no  giving. 
What  is  there  to  give?  All  mine  is  thine, 
all  thine  is  mine.  Together  we  share,  not 
give.  But  as  we  detach  ourselves  little  by 
little,  the  old  separate  self  comes  back  and 
we  hand  something  across  the  chasm.  How 
sad  when  exuberant  love  thus  declines  into 
intentional  giving,  altering  “because  it 
alteration  finds  and  bending  with  the  re- 


LOVE 


101 


mover  to  remove”!  But  sadder  still  is  it 
when  to  formerly  abundant  love  the  guarded 
altruism  of  manners  succeeds  and  each  is 
satisfied  to  treat  the  other  with  watchful 
politeness.  This  is  the  last  stopping-place 
before  confessed  bankruptcy. 

(5)  But  is  not  love  always  open  to  re- 
pair through  duty  ? Being  the  highest 
embodiment  of  morality  it  would  naturally 
seem  peculiarly  alive  to  duty.  But  the 
very  opposite  is  the  case.  It  has,  in  fact,  a 
strange  aversion  to  duty.  Any  suspicion 
that  we  are  expected  to  love  a certain  per- 
son alienates  us  from  him.  We  cannot 
force  ourselves  to  love  even  when  we  see 
it  to  be  desirable;  nor  can  we  expel  love 
when  we  find  it  unreturned  or  unworthy. 
Love  insists  on  freedom,  a certain  absence 
of  constraint,  either  from  a person,  from 
circumstance,  from  collateral  advantages,  or 
even  from  our  own  volition.  Like  giving, 
it  recognizes  no  claim.  “Love  is  a present 
to  a mighty  king,”  says  Herbert.  It  can- 
not be  bought  or  sold.  But  though  so  lit- 
tle submissive  to  obligation,  it  is  highly 
sensitive  to  suggestion  and  unclamorous 
appeal.  Indeed,  it  soon  perishes  when 
fresh  suggestion  is  withheld.  Indirectly, 


102 


ALTRUISM 


therefore,  and  accepting  time  for  an  ally, 
we  can  control  love.  I have  repeatedly 
spoken  of  intention,  rational  guidance,  re- 
sourceful care,  as  necessities  if  we  would 
have  a wise  and  lasting  love.  Those  who 
complain  of  its  decay  have  generally  them- 
selves to  blame.  They  have  imagined  it 
constituted  once  for  all  and,  while  they 
would  be  glad  to  have  it  continue,  have 
taken  little  pains  for  that  fresh  renewal  on 
which  its  life  is  staked.  “Keep  on  court- 
ing,” said  a sagacious  mother  to  a young 
bridegroom  on  his  wedding-day.  And 
what  has  here  been  said  of  marital  love 
applies  also,  with  adaptations,  to  the  love  of 
God  and  the  love  of  our  fellow  men.  No- 
where will  love  submit  to  the  direct  com- 
mand of  duty.  But  indirectly,  gradually, 
through  suggestion  and  considerate  modes 
of  approach,  it  is  well  within  our  control. 
The  Golden  Rule,  bidding  us  love  God  and 
our  neighbor,  is  not  a psychological  blunder. 

(6)  How  does  friendship  differ  from 
love?  Like  love,  it  differs  from  partner- 
ship through  having  an  entirely  personal 
basis.  Within  its  limits  partnership  is  as 
genuinely  mutual  as  love  itself,  but  its 
mutuality  refers  to  ends  outside  the  per- 


LOVE 


103 


sonal  lives.  These  remain  detached  and 
individual,  merely  co-operating  for  a time 
to  accomplish  an  external  purpose.  In 
both  love  and  friendship  the  personalities 
merge.  Their  interests  become  identified, 
so  that  one  of  the  parties  without  the  other 
is  but  a fragmentary  being. 

But  friendship  differs  from  love  in  the 
degree  of  intensity  of  its  emotion  and  in 
the  extent  of  the  tract  of  life  covered.  In 
these  respects  it  more  nearly  resembles 
liking.  We  all  know  how  slight  a friendly 
feeling  may  be,  even  when  entirely  genu- 
ine. This  is  because  of  the  well-recognized 
limits  of  friendship,  limits  sometimes  nar- 
row, sometimes  broad.  I take  John  for  my 
friend  on  account  of  his  wit,  James  for  his 
scholarship,  Henry  for  discussion  of  art, 
Charles  for  theology.  Outside  these  mat- 
ters we  have  little  in  common.  If  I try  to 
introduce  these  friends  to  other  sides  of 
me,  I know  that  our  friendship  would  be 
strained.  Love  knows  no  such  limits.  In 
it  there  is  no  holding  back.  There  the  more 
we  give  the  more  we  have.  Not  that  in 
friendship  we  set  up  such  limits  by  our 
own  volition,  as  is  done  in  partnership. 
The  limits  are  ingrained  in  the  persons, 


104 


ALTRUISM 


and  beyond  them  we  know  it  is  futile  to 
press.  When  two  natures  have  certain 
sides  that  fit,  to  the  advantage  of  each,  a 
friendship  springs  up.  But  how  embarrass- 
ing when  some  friend  whom  we  greatly 
value  has  limitations  which  oblige  us  to 
pause  and  he,  not  perceiving  them,  at- 
tributes to  our  adverse  will  the  failure  in 
full  mutual  accord ! Because  of  its  narrow 
bounds  and  because  it  is  sought  for  in- 
dividual gain,  friendship  is  of  far  wider 
currency  than  love.  We  make  and  drop 
our  friendships  with  comparative  ease, 
hardly  from  the  first  expecting  them  to  be 
lasting.  But  a love  to  which  we  contem- 
plated an  end,  either  in  extent  or  duration, 
would  be  already  ended.  The  Greeks 
justly  eulogized  friendship  as  our  best  se- 
curity in  an  uncertain  world.  And,  ob- 
viously, he  is  imprudent  who  does  not  sur- 
round himself  with  a protecting  band  of 
friends. 

Let  me,  in  closing  this  section,  call  at- 
tention to  these  varieties  of  personal  con- 
tact, all  of  which  are  desirable.  We  all 
need  a multitude  of  acquaintances,  can, 
indeed,  hardly  have  too  many.  These  are 
persons  whose  faces  and  names  we  know. 


LOVE 


105 


with  something  of  their  occupations  and 
history.  While  we  know  them  only  on  the 
outside  our  impressions  of  them  are  favor- 
able, and  their  nod,  smile,  or  passing  greet- 
ing brightens  the  moment  and  makes  us 
feel  at  one  with  our  species.  These  do  not 
attain  the  rank  of  friends,  to  whom  we  ex- 
pose sections  of  our  lives,  in  whose  char- 
acters we  see  admirable  traits  which  are 
less  developed  in  ourselves,  and  on  whom 
we  lean  in  times  of  doubt,  trouble,  and 
ignorance.  Such  steadying  friends  will  not 
be  a large  company  and  should  be  chosen 
deliberately,  not  through  juxtaposition,  but 
on  grounds  of  merit  and  adaptation  to  our 
needs.  Closer  than  these,  however,  should 
come  our  intimates,  one  or  two,  those  to 
whom  we  give  whole-hearted  love.  From 
such  an  intimate  we  hide  nothing,  not  even 
our  faults.  To  him  we  express  our  half- 
thoughts, make  up  our  minds  in  company 
with  his,  find  excellence  easy  in  his  pres- 
ence and  yet,  to  our  daily  astonishment, 
see  that  he  obtains  as  much  from  us  as  we 
from  him.  Him  we  love.  He  is  another 
self,  and  all  that  is  ours  is  his  also. 

Such,  then,  is  love  and  such  its  varieties 
and  shadings.  Parted  from  mutuality,  al- 


106 


ALTRUISM 


truism  has  little  worth.  Only  where  love 
is,  where  the  conjunct  self  has  taken  the 
place  of  the  separate  self,  is  altruism  com- 
pletely realized.  In  such  love  morality  at- 
tains its  goal.  Accordingly,  in  every  age 
those  most  impassioned  for  the  formation 
of  character  have  exalted  love  as  its  cen- 
tral principle.  The  first  to  perceive  its 
importance  and  to  begin  an  exploitation  of 
its  labyrinths  was  Plato.  To  love  he  has 
dedicated  three  of  his  Dialogues.  In  the 
first  of  them,  the  delightful  little  piece 
called  Lysis,  he  busies  himself  with  the 
contradictions  of  love.  He  does  not  seek 
to  establish  a positive  doctrine.  No  con- 
clusion is  reached,  but  the  enigmatic  char- 
acter of  love  is  brought  out  with  extraor- 
dinary vividness.  The  greatest  of  his  love 
dialogues,  and  one  which  has  profoundly 
influenced  all  subsequent  ages,  is  the  Sym- 
posium, beautifully  translated  by  the  poet 
Shelley  under  the  name  of  The  Banquet. 
Socrates  and  his  friends  assembling  one 
evening,  it  is  proposed  that  instead  of 
general  conversation  they  shall  talk  on 
some  specific  subject,  and  love  is  selected. 
One  speaker  after  another  reports  what  he 
has  seen  in  love — its  dignity,  its  heavenly 


LOVE 


107 


and  earthly  types,  its  universality  as  an 
underlying  principle  of  physical  nature, 
the  supposed  origin  of  the  separate  self 
and  its  subsequent  desire  for  completion, 
love  as  the  organizer  of  human  life.  Then 
Socrates  points  out  how  the  true  signifi- 
cance of  love  lies  in  its  passion  for  perfec- 
tion and  how  it  continually  supersedes  its 
lower  forms  in  the  interest  of  what  is  larger. 
The  most  obscuring  of  these  lower  forms, 
the  least  regardful  of  anything  beyond  it- 
self, is  that  instinctive  passion  between  the 
sexes  which  tries  to  monopolize  the  name 
of  love.  Friendship  is  more  intelligent. 
Unities  of  a still  wider  and  firmer  kind  are 
disclosed  in  the  social,  artistic,  and  scien- 
tific impulses.  These  are  all  prompted  by 
love  and  follow  increasing  grades  of  beauty. 
Religion,  however,  alone  reveals  the  full 
significance  of  these  struggles  toward  con- 
junction; for  God  is  the  only  complete 
wholeness,  and  every  endeavor  to  unite 
with  other  things  or  persons  is  but  a blind 
seeking  after  him.  Love  appears  once 
more  in  the  Phcedrus,  where  its  deeper 
implications  are  traced  in  connection  with 
rhetoric  and  general  philosophy. 

At  the  time  of  the  Renaissance  Mar- 


108 


ALTRUISM 


cilius  Ficinus  translated  the  Symposium  of 
Plato  and  carried  its  influence  into  all  the 
literatures  of  western  Europe.  Edmund 
Spenser  reflects  that  influence  in  his  two 
superb  hymns  in  Honor  of  Love  and  in 
Honor  of  Beauty.  A vivacious  modern 
statement  of  the  ancient  doctrine  is  that 
of  R.  W.  Emerson  in  his  Essay  on  Love; 
and  an  amusing  disparagement  of  love,  as 
that  which  interferes  with  the  comforts 
and  conveniences  of  the  separate  self,  ap- 
pears in  Bacon’s  Essay  on  Love.  It  has 
been  well  said  that  any  one  who  imagines 
Shakespeare’s  plays  were  written  by  Bacon 
should  read  this  essay  and  follow  it  with 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  Of  course,  all  the  poets 
linger  in  the  neighborhood  of  love  and  de- 
clare it  to  be  that  which  makes  the  world 
go  round.  One  of  them,  the  mid-Victorian 
Coventry  Patmore,  made  himself  its  ex- 
positor and  devoted  his  entire  product  to 
the  systematic  analysis  of  its  every  phase. 
Perhaps  to  heighten  the  impression  of  ve- 
racity, he  has  made  the  verse  of  his  early 
volumes,  entitled  The  Angel  in  the  House, 
approach  as  nearly  as  possible  to  prose, 
while  his  later  volume.  The  Unknown  Eros, 
treats  the  same  matter  in  a series  of  rap- 


LOVE 


109 


turous  odes.  Admiring  them  both  as  I do 
in  an  age  when  they  are  both  out  of  fash- 
ion, I take  up  The  Angel  in  the  House  when 
in  a psychological  mood  I am  not  disturbed 
by  absurdity,  and  turn  to  The  Unknown 
Eros  when  my  ear  craves  music  and  I wel- 
come the  Platonic  madness. 


CHAPTER  VII 
JUSTICE 

Before  advancing  further  it  may  be 
well  to  survey  the  tangled  ground  already 
traversed ; for  in  mutuality,  the  third  great 
section  of  Altruism,  I have  not  been  able 
to  employ  the  simple  treatment  which 
Manners  and  Giving  received.  The  prin- 
ciple throughout  is  precise  and  uniform. 
Within  a specified  field  the  interests  of  two 
or  more  persons  are  to  be  accounted  iden- 
tical, so  that  a double  gain  becomes  possible, 
altruism  transforming  itself  into  egoism 
and  egoism  into  altruism.  This  is  the  com- 
mon principle  which  shapes  every  form  of 
mutuality.  But  the  extent  of  the  fields 
specified  differs  so  widely  as  to  give  rise  to 
forms  of  very  unlike  moral  value,  which 
deserve  separate  examination. 

In  the  field  of  partnership,  for  example, 
it  is  understood  that  the  union  will  not 
continue  indefinitely  and  that  it  has  been 

no 


JUSTICE 


111 


brought  about  for  attaining  some  external 
end.  Partnership,  bargaining,  voluntary- 
association  would  not  come  into  existence 
were  it  not  for  the  prospect  of  mutual  gain. 
If  one  party  alone  gains,  we  see  that  some 
unfairness  has  occurred.  Yet  because  in 
these  unions  mutuality  is  restricted  to  a 
small  group  and  to  the  accomplishment  of 
external  purposes,  they  often  become  en- 
gines for  a selfishness  more  intense  than 
their  separate  members  would  approve. 
A popular  proverb  exaggerates  but  little  in 
saying  that  corporations  have  no  souls. 

But  such  perilous  restrictions  are  un- 
necessary. There  can  be  mutuality  with- 
out them.  Instead  of  referring  to  an  ex- 
ternal end,  unions  can  be  formed  for  an 
internal  purpose.  The  very  lives  and  as- 
pirations of  two  persons  may  be  joined. 
That  is  unnecessary  in  business  relations. 
I may  dislike  my  partner  personally,  yet 
judge  it  wise  to  identify  my  commercial 
interests  with  his.  When  I make  a pur- 
chase at  a shop  I do  not  inquire  about  the 
character  of  the  dealer.  With  that  I have 
no  concern.  His  life  is  his,  mine  mine. 
Our  mutual  relation  touches  only  the  value 
of  the  article  purchased.  And  something 


ALTRUISM 


112 

similar  is  true  of  our  voluntary  associa- 
tions. I join  my  political  club  in  the  hope 
of  furthering  public  interests;  but,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I am  often  ashamed  of  my  as- 
sociates there.  We  have  a common  aim, 
but  personally  I will  keep  myself  as  clear 
from  my  fellow  workers  as  possible.  Un- 
der none  of  the  conditions  which  I have 
called  partnership  do  lives  merge.  To 
these  unions  for  definable  ends  a termina- 
tion is  sometimes  set,  sometimes  indefi- 
nitely anticipated. 

Now,  in  the  case  of  love,  these  restric- 
tions are  done  away.  Accordingly  the 
whole  principle  of  mutuality  comes  out 
there  with  a lucidity,  power,  and  moving 
appeal  which  it  cannot  possibly  have  in  the 
briefly  planned  arrangements  of  trade.  For 
though  love  often  passes  away,  no  such 
cessation  is  contemplated.  The  eternal 
vows  of  lovers  have  always  been  a subject 
of  jest.  No  doubt  limited  marriages  have 
been  proposed.  But  I suspect  if  they  ever 
come  about,  what  we  mean  by  love  will  be 
omitted.  It  would  strike  most  of  us  as 
absurd  for  me  to  ask  Mary  to  join  me  in 
identifying  our  lives  for  a single  year, 
sharing  during  that  time  our  home,  our 


JUSTICE 


113 


aims,  our  inmost  thoughts,  but  always  in- 
tending at  the  end  of  that  time  to  go  our 
separate  ways,  unable  to  say  “we.”  Ex- 
ternal relations  can  be  formed,  dropped, 
and  resumed,  the  persons  involved  re- 
maining unaffected.  That  is  not  true  of 
interior  relations.  These  fashion  a new 
personality  to  which  old  forms  of  morals, 
even  old  forms  of  language,  no  longer  ap- 
ply. Before  advancing  to  explain  as  my 
final  topic  the  special  modifications  of  mu- 
tuality which  fit  it  for  a world  principle, 
let  me  sum  up  the  whole  doctrine  of  love 
in  some  majestic  lines  attributed  to  Shake- 
speare. In  1601  a curious  book  appeared 
called  Chester's  Love's  Martyr,  containing 
a poem  to  which  Shakespeare’s  name  was 
affixed.  This  single  fact,  and  the  unlikeli- 
hood that  any  one  else  had  such  com- 
pulsive power  over  words,  are  our  only 
grounds  for  thinking  Shakespeare  wrote  the 
piece.  It  is  entitled  “The  Phoenix  and  the 
Turtle,”  and  allegorically  describes  the  fu- 
neral of  a pair  of  married  lovers,  the  man 
denoted  by  the  turtle,  the  woman  by  the 
phoenix.  I quote  only  the  funeral  chant, 
omitting  the  picturesque  introduction  and 
the  solemn  ending: 


ALTRUISM 


“Here  the  anthem  doth  commence; 
Love  and  constancy  is  dead, 
Phoenix  and  the  turtle  fled 
In  a mutual  flame  from  thence. 

So  they  loved  as  love  in  twain 
Had  the  essence  but  in  one. 

Two  distincts,  division  none, 
Number  there  in  love  was  slain. 

Hearts  remote,  yet  not  asunder. 
Distance,  and  no  space  was  seen 
’Twixt  the  turtle  and  his  queen: 
But  in  them  it  were  a wonder. 

So  between  them  love  did  shine 
That  the  turtle  saw  his  right 
Flaming  in  the  phoenix’  sight; 
Either  was  the  other’s  mine. 

Property  was  thus  appalled, 

That  the  self  was  not  the  same. 
Single  nature’s  double  name 
Neither  two  nor  one  was  called. 

Reason,  in  itself  confounded, 

Saw  division  grow  together. 

To  themselves,  yet  either — neither. 
Simple  were  so  well  compounded 

That  it  cried  how  true  a twain 
Seemeth  this  concordant  one ! 

Love  hath  reason,  reason  none, 

If  what  parts  can  so  remain.” 


JUSTICE 


115 


What  audacity  of  word  and  precision  of 
thought ! With  what  accuracy  the  para- 
doxes of  love  are  stated ! “To  themselves, 
yet  either — neither.”  In  the  first  stanza 
the  sacred  word  “mutual”  is  introduced. 
Where  else  in  our  language  is  the  conjunct 
self  so  completely  set  forth  ? 

Yet  we  cannot  pause  even  here.  To 
make  love  a principle  capable  of  universal 
application,  it  will  need  to  be  reconsti- 
tuted and,  while  retaining  its  mutuality,  to 
be  stripped  of  sundry  restrictions. 

For  love  is  ever  selective.  It  chooses  one 
and  leaves  another.  It  is  exercised  only 
toward  definite  persons,  a little  group,  pref- 
erably two.  The  smaller  the  number  the 
warmer  the  love.  But  what  we  are  trying 
to  discover  is  how  altruism  may  penetrate 
the  whole  of  life,  organizing  society  and 
the  state.  That  was  our  ambitious  ideal, 
and  love  is  not  comprehensive  enough  for 
it.  When  we  give  ourselves  up  to  the 
single  person  or  small  group  fitted  to  re- 
ceive our  love,  will  there  not  be  the  same 
danger  as  appeared  in  the  discussion  of 
partnership,  that  the  rest  of  the  world  will 
be  shut  out  ? A pair  of  lovers  is  notorious- 
ly unpleasing  to  everybody  except  them- 


116 


ALTRUISM 


selves.  In  that  little  world  of  theirs  they 
are  so  engrossed  with  the  joint  service  of  a 
common  life  that  what  happens  in  the 
needy  world  beyond  is  hardly  noticed. 
Love  of  this  sort  is  pretty  far  removed 
from  universal  altruism. 

Nor  is  this  danger  confined  to  the  pas- 
sion of  man  for  woman.  Broader  types  of 
love  show  the  same  exclusive  absorption. 
Each  member  of  a household  may  be  de- 
voted to  the  rest  and  find  his  own  gain 
through  devotion  to  theirs.  Here  love  at- 
tains a peculiarly  beautiful  mutuality.  But 
it  is  still  circumscribed.  The  family  be- 
comes sufficient  for  itself.  Other  families 
do  not  count.  Love  has  been  selective  and, 
fixing  its  ardor  on  certain  persons,  shuts 
out  the  rest.  Even  the  love  of  God  and 
his  children  may  narrow  itself  to  interest 
in  those  only  who  approach  him  in  the 
same  way  as  ourselves.  Our  religious  sym- 
pathy may  not  extend  beyond  our  sect. 
Similar  perils  beset  national  love  or  pa- 
triotism. 

No  doubt  in  all  these  cases  the  narrower 
field  may  provide  training  for  the  broader; 
but  so  long  as  love  is  selective  and  waits 
upon  personal  interest  it  will  be  hard 


JUSTICE 


117 


pressed  by  conditioning  accident.  Rightly 
does  Spenser  declare  that  for  the  combina- 
tions of  love  the  stars’  consent  is  necessary. 
Circumstance,  juxtaposition,  plays  a large 
part  at  the  beginning  of  love.  The  one 
who  would  interest  me  may  not  happen  to 
come  my  way;  and  I cannot  love  one  whom 
I do  not  know.  Obtaining  such  knowledge, 
too,  even  in  regard  to  one  very  near,  is 
uncertain  business.  I see  some  one  who 
calls  out  what  is  best  in  me  and  am  con- 
fident that  joining  with  her  will  bring 
about  a glorious  life  for  us  both.  But  can 
I be  sure  ? An  error  in  estimating  will  ruin 
not  me  alone  but  her  too,  whom  I would 
honor.  Knowledge,  an  important  con- 
dition of  love,  is  hard  indeed  to  obtain. 
Nor  in  reckoning  the  hindrances  to  love  as 
a universal  principle  can  we  pass  by  the 
mysteries  of  temperament.  Many  a per- 
son have  we  known  to  be  lovable  whom 
we  could  never  love.  Peculiarities  of  in- 
heritance, training,  habit,  instinctive  feel- 
ing in  two  persons,  while  not  diminishing 
their  worth,  may  render  hopeless  their 
adaptation  to  one  another. 

Selective  love,  then,  hampered  by  its 
need  of  acquaintance,  nearness,  and  knowl- 


118 


ALTRUISM 


edge,  can  never  become  a universal  prin- 
ciple, binding  mankind  together.  It  shows, 
however,  what  we  want.  Nowhere  else 
does  altruistic  fervor  attain  such  depth. 
But  it  lacks  breadth  and  is  possible  only 
within  narrow  bounds.  We  have  been 
seeking  to  extend  mutuality,  the  double 
gain,  the  abolition  of  both  egoism  and  al- 
truism, far  beyond  those  bounds  and  reach 
a method  by  which  mankind  as  a whole 
might  engage  in  the  joint  service  of  a com- 
mon life.  Such  an  ideal  would  preserve  all 
characteristics  of  love  except  its  limitations. 
But  the  removal  of  these  will  affect  it  so 
deeply  as  to  oblige  a new  name.  I call  it 
J ustice. 

Let  us  examine  a case  where  mutualistic 
conduct  shows  traits  beyond  the  reach  of 
selective  love.  I go  to  a shoemaker  and 
ask  for  a pair  of  shoes.  He  hands  me  a 
pair,  I pay  his  price,  and  carry  them  home. 
As  I come  to  wear  them,  I find  them  ad- 
mirably made.  They  give  me  greater  com- 
fort than  I have  ever  had  before  and  wear 
longer.  The  leather  appears  to  have  been 
selected  with  care,  and  every  nail  and  stitch 
to  have  received  attention.  I return  to 
their  maker  and  say:  “That  was  a remark- 


JUSTICE 


119 


able  pair  of  shoes.  Did  you  make  them 
specially  for  me  ? Perhaps  you  have  known 
me  before,  have  taken  a fancy  to  me,  and 
so  have  been  willing  to  put  yourself  to  all 
this  trouble  for  my  convenience.  That  is 
the  way  with  love.  It  takes  burdens  on 
itself  to  relieve  another.”  How  astonished 
the  dealer  would  be  at  such  talk ! Would 
he  not  answer:  “I  had  no  thought  of  you, 
but  I made  the  shoes  as  well  as  I could. 
It  is  my  business.”  “But,”  I continue,  “if 
you  never  know  to  whom  your  shoes  will 
go,  why  take  such  pains?”  “Because  I 
mean  to  be  true  to  my  job  and  not  shirk 
my  part  in  the  ongoing  of  the  world.  If  I 
do  bad  work  somebody,  I don’t  know  who, 
will  suffer.  I mean  to  be  a good  shoe- 
maker.” Here  is  professional  responsibility. 
The  man  deals  justly  with  his  unknown 
public. 

And  in  such  professional  responsibility 
we  pass  from  individual  love  to  that  noble 
public  love  which  I have  ventured  to  call 
Justice.  Love  remains,  but  it  is  now  uni- 
versal love,  love  freed  from  selection  and 
without  those  restrictions  of  knowledge, 
circumstance,  and  temperament  on  which 
selection  is  based.  No  doubt  in  individual 


120 


ALTRUISM 


love  there  is  an  intimacy  and  a wealth  of 
feeling  which  this  case  has  not.  But  in  it 
selfishness  is  also  more  pronounced.  Know- 
ing John  well,  I am  confident  that  in  join- 
ing my  life  with  his,  and  with  his  only,  we 
shall  both  be  enriched.  But  the  shoe- 
maker carries  his  blessing  to  the  unknown 
and  joins  himself  rather  with  the  public 
good.  He  gets  his  gain  by  giving  gain  to 
those  whom  he  has  never  seen.  It  is  true 
that  the  transaction  may  be  partly  ex- 
plained on  the  grounds  already  noticed. 
An  exchange  has  occurred  by  which  buyer 
and  seller  have  alike  profited.  But  some- 
thing more  than  calculation  of  profit  has 
gone  into  these  shoes.  They  would  have 
sold  readily  with  half  the  care.  But  this 
man  respected  business  standards,  was 
something  more  than  a trader,  gave  not  by 
equivalent  measure,  and  was  more  con- 
cerned over  possible  danger  to  his  cus- 
tomers than  over  extra  labor  for  himself. 
That  is  the  essence  of  professionalism. 
While  frankly  seeking  mutual  gain  and  de- 
clining anything  one-sided,  it  abandons  all 
thought  of  exact  equivalence,  keeping  in  the 
foreground  standards  of  excellence  approved 
by  its  group  and  looking  to  public  service. 


JUSTICE 


121 


Or  is  there  in  the  professional  man  some- 
thing still  deeper  than  the  characteristics 
just  mentioned,  something  of  which  these 
are  but  the  outgrowth?  The  professional 
man  enjoys  his  work  and  would  rather  do 
it  than  not.  Many  of  us,  perhaps  most,  are 
driven  to  work  by  the  need  to  live.  We  will 
do  that  work  faithfully  and  not  disappoint 
those  who  depend  on  us.  But  we  often 
think  of  work  as  toil,  do  as  little  of  it  as 
possible,  and  find  our  enjoyment  quite  out- 
side it.  Days  of  freedom  from  that  toil 
are  eagerly  anticipated.  How  different  is 
the  professional  spirit ! It  took  up  its 
work  originally  not  as  a task  but  as  a 
chance  to  gratify  a personal  interest.  To 
following  that  interest  through  all  its  wind- 
ings its  heart  has  been  given.  Throughout 
there  has  been  a passion  for  perfection, 
never  realized,  never  abandoned.  Each 
day  carries  accomplishment  forward  and 
discloses  wider  ranges  into  which  skill 
might  extend.  Hardship,  lack  of  gain, 
failure  to  be  recognized  are  matters  of 
slender  consequence.  The  work  itself  is  its 
own  rich  reward. 

Such  is  professional  responsibility  at  its 
best.  It  is  responsibility  to  no  individual. 


122 


ALTRUISM 


not  even  so  much  to  the  general  public  as 
to  the  profession  chosen.  Perhaps  we 
catch  the  spirit  most  readily  among  artists 
and  scholars,  who  proverbially  show  little 
regard  for  financial  results.  But  even 
where  regard  for  money  is  patent  and 
necessary,  this  professional  spirit  is  often 
also  present. 

I am  ill  and  call  a physician.  He  comes 
to  my  bedside  day  by  day,  studies  my  case 
with  elaborate  care,  gives  up  large  amounts 
of  precious  time  to  my  whims,  and  never 
allows  his  moods  to  intrude,  so  that  on  my 
recovery  I cannot  help  saying:  “What  a 
sympathetic  person  you  are ! I do  not 
see  how  you  can  hold  an  interest  in  so 
many  people  and  feel  their  afflictions  as  if 
they  were  your  own.”  Such  a remark 
would  be  as  inadequate  as  if  I had  said: 
“You  have  thoroughly  earned  your  fee.” 
Both  would  be  true,  and  both  would  point 
to  motives  which  might  rightly  influence 
him.  But  into  that  complex  motive  would 
go  a third  factor  more  influential  still,  if 
he  was  a worthy  physician.  He  cares  for 
the  healing  art.  Of  course  he  is  unwilling 
that  I,  this  individual  person,  should  suffer. 
But  it  is  not  the  “me”  element  nor  the 


JUSTICE 


123 


money  element  which  made  him  take  his 
trouble.  He  would  have  done  the  same 
for  a stranger.  And  this  impartial  attitude 
is,  on  the  whole,  best.  Personal  sympathy 
is  often  disturbing.  Let  him  coolly  survey 
me  as  a case  of  typhus  fever,  and  I shall 
get  his  best  service.  Through  me  he  re- 
lieves suffering,  obtains  for  himself  a due 
income,  gains  larger  knowledge  of  disease 
and  skill  in  combating  it;  in  short,  meets 
the  responsibilities  of  an  arduous  and  in- 
teresting profession. 

One  may  wonder  why  I call  this  imper- 
sonal extension  of  love  Justice.  Because 
justice  seeks  to  benefit  all,  but  all  alike. 
It  knows  no  persons,  or  rather  it  knows 
every  one  as  a person  and  insures  each  his 
share  in  the  common  good.  All  the  altru- 
ism of  love  is  here,  but  without  love’s  ar- 
bitrary selection  and  limited  interest.  We 
do  wrong  in  thinking  of  justice  as  chiefly 
concerned  with  penalties.  These  are  in- 
cidental, inflicted  on  those  who  refuse  to 
find  their  gain  in  the  gain  of  others.  The 
main  work  of  justice  is  its  equal  distribu- 
tion of  advantage  and  its  insistence  that 
each  individual  shall  be  faithful  to  what  he 
undertakes  for  the  benefit  of  all.  Justice 


124 


ALTRUISM 


is  therefore  thoroughgoing  love,  its  mu- 
tuality guarded,  rationalized,  stripped  of 
personal  bias,  and  brought  near  us  through 
the  avenues  of  our  special  work. 

Only  we  must  not  confine  the  professions 
to  the  four  usually  reckoned:  teaching, 
preaching,  medicine,  and  the  law.  The 
professional  spirit  may  vitalize  work  of 
every  sort.  Here  is  a poor  man  to  whom 
few  enjoyments  are  open,  who  goes  out 
morning  after  morning  to  shovel  gravel  or 
to  engage  in  some  other  labor  equally  un- 
interesting. He  earns  his  two  or  three 
dollars  a day,  takes  it  home,  and  hands 
it  to  his  slatternly  wife.  Once  he  was 
drawn  to  her  by  romantic  love.  With  her 
he  figured  a real  union,  each  continually 
happy  in  the  sight  of  the  other  and  each 
day  bringing  to  both  an  inward  joy.  He 
did  not  know  her.  He  had  neither  the  op- 
portunity nor  the  ability  to  study  her 
temperament  and  learn  whether  it  was  ad- 
justable to  his.  It  proved  not  to  be  so. 
Children  came,  cares  increased,  she  neg- 
lected herself,  her  home,  her  husband. 
There  was  no  longer  any  warmth  of  affec- 
tion between  them.  But  still  he  goes  on 
working  for  her  unmurmuringly.  She  is  a 


JUSTICE 


125 


wife  and  mother,  he  a husband  and  father. 
To  these  relationships  he  will  be  faithful. 
Is  not  his  a larger  love  than  that  of  the 
courtship?  I do  not  see  that  we  can  say 
so.  But  it  is  love  of  a different  sort  and  a 
very  noble  sort.  We  called  love  the  joint 
service  of  a common  life.  Though  she  no 
longer  joins  him,  he  joins  the  community 
in  maintaining  the  family  tie.  What  keeps 
him  going  is  his  professional  responsibil- 
ity. Being  a good  husband  is  the  task  as- 
signed him  in  the  general  division  of  labor. 
He  recognizes  its  justice,  controls  his  tem- 
per, and  patiently  meets  the  hardship  in- 
volved. I cannot  see  how  there  is  less  pro- 
fessional responsibility  here  than  in  the  case 
of  the  shoemaker  or  physician.  Indeed, 
wherever  any  one  is  true  to  his  specific 
task,  puts  his  heart  into  it,  works  not  for 
money  alone  nor  through  interest  in  a sin- 
gle individual,  but,  without  calculating  any 
equivalence  between  what  he  gives  and  re- 
ceives, studies  how  he  may  most  fully  per- 
form the  work  to  which  he  has  been  called, 
that  man  is  exhibiting  professional  re- 
sponsibility, honoring  love,  and  exalting 
justice  in  a way  to  deserve  profound  rev- 
erence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CONCLUSION 

Love  is  so  often  proclaimed  as  a social 
panacea  that  I have  thought  it  well  to 
subject  it  to  a careful  criticism  and  indi- 
cate its  defects  when  regarded  as  a com- 
plete embodiment  of  altruism.  Some  of 
those  defects  are  incidental.  Since  it  is 
an  affair  of  human  beings  it  cannot  fail  to 
show  the  imperfections  characteristic  of 
such  wayward  creatures.  Seldom  does  even 
marriage,  love’s  best  opportunity,  attain 
that  full  mutuality  which  I have  eulogized. 
Self-assertion  intrudes  early.  The  inter- 
ests of  one  or  the  other  party  become  pre- 
dominant, and  mutuality  gradually  de- 
clines. When  the  simple-minded  man  was 
told  that  in  marriage  two  persons  become 
one,  he  naturally  enough  asked:  “Which 
one?”  Yet  if  the  completely  conjunct  life 
is  rare,  it  is  precious  as  an  ideal  for  di- 
recting conduct.  We  often  speak  of  love 
as  something  we  fall  into.  Rather  it  is 
something  to  be  made,  developed,  steadily 
126 


CONCLUSION 


127 


approximated.  The  best  marriages  are  ac- 
complished works  of  art,  yielding  large  re- 
wards through  all  their  progressive  stages. 
But  love  is  ever  unstable.  Unwatched,  it 
slips  down  among  the  lower  forms  of  al- 
truism. 

These  defects  of  love  are,  however,  but 
incidental  and  such  as  are  common  in  all 
man’s  undertakings.  There  is  nothing  in 
love  which  can  render  it  immune  from 
human  infirmity.  But  there  are  also  in  it 
certain  fundamental  defects  which  prevent 
it  from  becoming  an  organizing  world- 
principle.  At  least  before  it  can  weld  in- 
dividuals into  societies  and  states  it  must 
undergo  large  transformation  and  appear 
rather  as  justice  than  domestic  affection. 
For  love  is  naturally  selective  and  indi- 
vidual, picking  out  one  and  rejecting  an- 
other. It  does  not  offer  its  bounty  alike 
to  all.  Private  altruism,  it  might  be  called, 
so  that  it  always  seems  indelicate  to  speak 
of  it  in  public.  It  concerns  only  those 
immediately  involved  and  only  their  most 
intimate  experiences.  From  such  limita- 
tions it  needs  to  be  freed  before  it  can  be- 
come formative  over  society.  All  that  is 
conjunctive  in  it  must  be  retained  and  only 


128 


ALTRUISM 


its  exclusions  removed.  In  this  way  gen- 
eral justice  will  supplement  individual  love. 
All  the  varieties  of  mutuality  are  alike  in 
joining  self-regard  with  extra-regard.  They 
differ  only  in  the  extent  of  that  extra- 
regard. 

In  my  last  chapter  I began  the  discussion 
of  that  superpersonal  love  which  I called 
Justice.  It  is  concerned  with  functions 
rather  than  individuals,  and  love  is  thus 
extended  to  a multitude  who  still  remain 
unknown.  To  keep  the  framework  of 
society  steady  large  co-operation  is  re- 
quired, each  of  its  members  becoming  re- 
sponsible for  the  working  of  some  one 
among  its  many  functions  and  having  his 
own  well-being  bound  up  with  its.  To 
that  function  each  is  to  devote  himself  as 
the  lover  does  to  his  lady,  and  through  it  he 
sends  his  benefactions  abroad  to  whoever 
stands  in  need.  Such  is  the  ideal  of  pro- 
fessional responsibility;  and  whether  seen 
in  shoemaker,  doctor,  or  head  of  a family, 
it  is  something  of  wider  scope  and  more 
generous  impulse  than  private  love. 

Yet  even  in  professional  responsibility  an 
element  of  selection  remains.  After  study- 
ing the  needs  of  the  community  I pick  out 


CONCLUSION 


129 


what  work  I will  do.  On  some  single  need 
I fasten — the  need  of  settling  quarrels,  and 
I become  a lawyer;  the  need  of  instruction, 
and  I become  a teacher;  the  needs  of  the 
breakfast-table,  and  I become  a grocer.  In 
all  these  cases  my  service  is  given  not  to 
man  as  man,  but  only  to  a section  of  men, 
to  those  who  are  conscious  of  a certain 
specific  need.  It  is  possible,  however,  to 
extend  justice  and,  not  confining  attention 
to  wants  already  known,  to  endeavor  to 
enlarge  the  whole  intellectual  horizon  of 
our  fellows.  Thus  love  becomes  peculiarly 
impersonal  and  creative. 

For  example,  when  I become  an  artist  or 
scientific  man  I do  not  know  precisely 
what  I shall  contribute  to  the  good  of  the 
public.  The  public  itself  has  experienced 
no  want  of  the  wares  which  I shall  furnish. 
In  devoting  myself  to  the  higher  mathe- 
matics I am  pursuing  something  for  which 
a practical  application  may  never  be  found. 
But  that  uncertainty  should  not  hold  me 
back.  I know  that  the  mind  of  man  moves 
off  in  that  direction.  I will  follow  and  see 
how  far  it  can  be  pressed.  These  investi- 
gations I am  making  in  astronomy  are 
curious.  They  satisfy  my  passion  for  know- 


ISO 


ALTRUISM 


ing.  Believing  they  will  satisfy  that  pas- 
sion in  others  also,  I ask  no  more.  Passing 
beyond  the  immediate  application  of  my 
results,  I simply  aim  at  developing  per- 
sons more  fully  as  persons,  so  that  their 
capacity  for  knowledge  may  be  increased. 
Just  so  does  the  artist  attempt  to  reveal 
aspects  of  beauty  hitherto  unperceived. 
When  he  furnishes  what  has  been  done  be- 
fore, what  men  have  learned  to  enjoy  and 
now  demand,  he  is  a professional  workman 
and  belongs  in  the  preceding  class.  But  a 
true  artist  explores  phases  of  unacknowl- 
edged beauty.  Having  himself  seen  what 
others  have  not  seen,  he  takes  the  risk  of 
announcing  it,  certain  that  if  it  is  com- 
prehended he  will  open  men’s  eyes  to  fresh 
enjoyment.  Rightly  therefore  do  we  hold 
artists  and  scientific  men  in  high  honor  as 
enlargers  of  humanity.  We  see  that  altru- 
ism like  theirs  calls  for  risk  and  special  dis- 
interestedness. They  are  discoverers,  going 
out  into  wide  lands,  far  from  sure  what 
will  be  found  there,  but  ready  to  sacrifice 
themselves  for  possible  human  betterment. 
Intellectual  soldiers,  we  may  call  them,  ac- 
cepting the  risks  of  doubtful  battle.  Theirs 
is  a lofty  altruism,  and  none  the  less  be- 


CONCLUSION 


131 


cause  success  may  bring  them  fame  and 
fortune. 

Perhaps  I strain  the  word  justice  in  ap- 
plying it  to  them,  yet  they  as  truly  as  the 
professional  man  do  not  pick  out  individ- 
uals as  receivers  of  their  benefits.  Indeed, 
that  absence  of  particularity  so  empha- 
sized in  justice  goes  to  such  a degree  with 
them  that  their  work  seems  to  proceed 
from  the  spirit  of  science  or  spirit  of  beauty 
rather  than  from  a particular  person.  They 
strike  us  as  transcending  their  age,  their 
own  peculiarities,  and  to  embody  the  con- 
junct self  of  humanity. 

Still  another  form  of  justice,  or  of  love, 
which  passes  beyond  the  individual,  is  the 
service  of  institutions.  Artists,  scientific 
and  professional  men  all  follow  interests  of 
their  own,  believing,  however,  that  their 
work  in  the  long  run  will  benefit  the  pub- 
lic. But  in  the  service  of  institutions  not 
only  does  the  public  receive  a benefit,  it 
fixes  also  what  our  work  toward  bringing 
it  about  shall  be.  Personal  choice,  there- 
fore, altogether  disappears.  The  action  is 
conjunctive  throughout.  But  to  under- 
stand this  dark  saying  we  must  bring  clearly 
before  our  minds  what  an  institution  is.  It 


132 


ALTRUISM 


is  a large  term  which  we  are  apt  to  allow 
to  fill  out  a big  gap  in  our  knowledge. 

I mean  by  institutions  those  fairly  per- 
manent relations  between  persons  which 
past  experience  has  established  for  the  pro- 
motion of  human  welfare  and  successive 
generations  have  approved.  Ever  since 
civilization  began  men  have  been  experi- 
menting how  to  live  together  most  help- 
fully. The  results,  tested  by  the  induction 
of  ages,  become  the  inherited  habits  of  in- 
dividuals and  the  institutions  of  society. 
Maintained  through  passing  years,  criti- 
cised, readjusted  to  meet  more  fully  the 
needs  they  were  intended  to  fulfil,  they 
furnish  each  of  us  a working  capital  as 
soon  as  we  enter  the  world.  We  are  not 
obliged  to  decide  in  childhood  whether  to 
have  three  meals  a day,  whether  man’s 
dress  shall  differ  from  woman’s,  whether 
to  have  provision  made  for  our  instruction, 
worship,  settlement  of  quarrels,  safety  on 
the  street.  These  matters  were  considered 
before  we  were  born,  and  judgments  about 
them  form  our  most  precious  inheritance. 
It  is  a veritable  bank  stock  of  experience  on 
which  to  draw  for  our  support.  We  accept 
it  all  as  a thing  of  course  at  first,  then  be- 


CONCLUSION 


133 


gin  to  scrutinize  it,  asking  how  far  these 
particular  institutions  save  social  friction, 
open  avenues  for  enlarged  activity,  and 
how  far  that  which  once  served  these  ends 
serves  them  no  more. 

Such  institutions  are  intended  for  the 
general  good.  By  identifying  ourselves 
with  them  we  both  share  in  that  good  and 
exercise  an  impartial  love  for  mankind. 
For  these  have  an  influence  over  men  un- 
equalled by  any  other  agency.  They  fash- 
ion us  in  our  unconscious  years  and  carry 
forward  our  purposes  in  years  of  discre- 
tion. To  comprehend  their  consolidated 
wisdom  and  conform  ourselves  to  it  will  be 
our  chief  means  of  serving  our  fellow  men; 
to  neglect  or  weaken  them  through  in- 
dividual caprice  is  to  be  an  enemy  of  so- 
ciety. Only  we  must  discriminate  in  our 
modes  of  strengthening.  An  institution  is 
not  proved  good  by  the  bare  fact  of  its 
existence.  Perhaps  the  presumption  should 
be  in  its  favor,  for  it  could  hardly  get  itself 
established  if  injurious.  But  its  original 
adaptation  to  human  wants  is  unstable, 
and  strengthening  it  will  really  mean  fitting 
it  more  neatly  to  present  circumstances. 
To  maintain  its  outward  form  when  it  no 


134 


ALTRUISM 


longer  serves  its  purpose  is  to  be  unfaith- 
ful to  it.  Constructive  criticism  is  con- 
stantly required  if  institutions  are  to  be 
kept  sweet  and  wholesome.  Only  it  should 
be  borne  in  mind  that  changes  in  the  frame- 
work of  society  can  best  come  about 
slowly  and  only  at  the  desire  of  large  groups 
of  those  affected.  Presumptuous,  indeed, 
is  he  who  will  attempt  to  stand  outside  any 
of  our  fundamental  institutions.  The  set- 
ting up  of  his  individual  will  against  the 
general  will  proves  him  no  true  socialist. 
He  should  remember  that  since  everybody 
is  wiser  than  anybody  his  first  business  is 
to  conform  to  the  institutions  into  which 
he  is  born,  then  to  study  elaborately  their 
meaning,  and  finally  to  persuade  his  fel- 
lows to  join  in  readjusting  them  with  a 
view  to  their  more  effective  working.  Our 
love  for  our  fellow  men  is  shown  each  day 
in  our  maintenance,  critical  study,  and  re- 
form of  the  social  institutions  around  us. 
They  survive  only  through  our  constant 
approval,  are  too  important  to  be  neglected 
or  lightly  set  aside,  and  too  liable  to  decay 
to  be  left  uncriticised. 

It  is  obvious,  however,  that  institutions 
are  of  many  grades  of  importance.  Some 


CONCLUSION 


135 


are  fundamental,  as  the  family,  property, 
democracy;  others  are  local  and  individual, 
as  Harvard  University,  Boston,  the  Epis- 
copal Church,  the  Democratic  Party.  As 
they  become  narrower  our  acceptance  of 
them  changes  its  character,  affectionate 
loyalty  playing  a larger  part,  dutiful  obedi- 
ence less.  A member  of  a college,  for  ex- 
ample, comes  to  think  of  it  almost  as  a 
person,  symbolized  in  Alma  Mater,  and 
gives  to  it  the  loving  devotion  he  would 
feel  for  a revered  friend.  Members  of  in- 
stitutions so  individual  are  apt  to  take 
their  membership  as  something  like  a per- 
sonal trust  and  to  pride  themselves  on 
fidelity  to  it.  But  because  such  institu- 
tions are  of  limited  range  and  not  appli- 
cable to  all  mankind,  failure  in  allegiance  to 
them  is  generally  regarded  not  as  a moral 
lapse,  but  as  an  error  of  judgment. 

Such  are  some  of  the  aspects  of  justice, 
the  impartial  love  of  our  fellow  men.  When 
we  are  commanded  to  love  our  neighbor  as 
ourself,  we  cannot  excuse  ourselves  by 
saying  that  love  does  not  move  by  com- 
mand but  takes  its  own  way  according  to 
individual  temperament.  Even  of  the 
simpler  forms  of  love  this  is  only  partially 


136 


ALTRUISM 


true;  wisdom,  purpose,  and  patience  being 
also  essentials  of  permanence  even  in  our 
private  loves.  But  that  public  love  to 
which  we  are  summoned  is  no  mere  emo- 
tion, arising  blindly  and  passing  with  the 
mood.  It  is  the  rational  acceptance  of  our 
place  in  a social  organization  where  all  are 
dependent  on  each.  A good  synonym  for 
what  I have  called  justice  would  be  public- 
mindedness. 

And  in  this  extended  and  superpersonal 
love  altruism  attains  its  fullest  and  steadi- 
est expression.  But  so  does  egoism,  too. 
That  abstract  egoism,  it  is  r true,  which 
seeks  its  own  gain  regardless  of  that  of 
others,  is  submerged.  It  was  always  fic- 
titious, and  rapidly  conducted  him  who 
pursued  it  to  emptiness.  But  that  con- 
junct self,  the  person  constituted  through 
relations,  finds  in  this  justicial  love  his 
large  opportunity.  In  like  manner  the 
abstract  and  sentimental  alter,  figured  as 
that  uncriticisable  idol  to  which  individ- 
ual interests  must  daily  be  offered  up,  is 
overthrown  and  shown  to  have  reality  only 
in  the  degree  in  which  it  fosters  personal 
life.  Socialism  which  does  not  promote 
individuality,  individuality  which  does  not 


CONCLUSION 


137 


tend  toward  an  ever-completer  social  con- 
sciousness, are  alike  delusive.  Each  must 
find  its  justification  in  the  service  it  is  able 
to  render  to  its  pretended  foe.  Pure  gifts, 
to  individuals  or  the  state,  are  rightly  ob- 
jects of  suspicion.  Only  when  transmuted 
by  mutuality  can  they  be  kept  free  from 
taint. 

Such  at  least  is  the  doctrine  of  this 
book.  In  it  there  is  nothing  new.  Vaguely, 
waveringly,  and  with  but  a half  under- 
standing, I believe  it  has  ever  guided  the 
best  endeavors  of  mankind.  I have  only 
hoped  to  drag  it  into  clearer  light  by  a 
novel  sort  of  approach.  The  dangers  of 
that  mode  of  approach  I readily  see  and 
wish  my  readers  also  to  see.  As  a peda- 
gogue I have  torn  apart  things  which 
belong  together  and  have  separately  exhib- 
ited our  protective,  generous,  and  identify- 
ing impulses  as  successively  different  as- 
pects of  the  altruistic  life.  In  this  way  we 
teachers  are  obliged  to  proceed,  picking  to 
pieces  a concrete  whole,  even  when  our 
aim  is  to  show  wholeness.  But  my  readers 
will  not  be  so  simple  as  to  imagine  that 
things  occur  in  experience  so  disjointed  as 
on  my  pages.  Life  is  more  closely  com- 


138 


ALTRUISM 


pacted  than  our  expositions.  Higher  stages 
and  lower  move  forward  together,  assist- 
ing one  another.  The  disparagements 
which  I put  on  the  lower  varieties  of  altru- 
ism these  deserve  only  so  far  as  they  are 
detached  from  the  higher.  In  conjunction, 
the  higher  altruisms  ennoble  the  lower  and 
are  themselves  enriched  and  diversified 
by  whatever  inferior  stages  they  absorb. 
Among  the  ingredients  of  character  none 
can  safely  be  thrown  away.  We  study 
ethics  merely  to  find  a place  where  each 
may  be  helpful  to  all. 


I 


I 


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171 


P174A 


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